The Measure of a Sovereign
by awilliamsbbc.98
Summary: "The measure of a man is what he does with power."-Plato Calormene plots, suitors, and the threat of civil war manage to separate the Pevensies. Lucy embarks on a mission to the Lone Islands, Edmund spies on Calormen, while Peter and Susan are left to combat suitors and spies at Cair Paravel. Little do they know their secrets may spell doom for them-and for Narnia. NO PAIRINGS
1. A Parting of Ways

**Well, here this is. Hopefully I'm off to a solid start; the first half of this chapter was included in the preview provided at the end of The City Ruinous, but the second half is all new. Expect this story to contain espionage, Narnian politics, adventure, and ridiculous amounts of coffee. I still don't own Narnia or the Pevensies, however, Brickle, Athelstan, and most of the information about Peridan are my own creations.**

 _Cair Paravel-The Sixth Day of the month Greenroof-Firstday_

"Your majesty?" Peter sighed and cautiously opened one eye to peer blearily over at the nervous dwarf who was hovering beside his chair. _Surely, I haven't been that cross,_ he thought, rather crossly, upon seeing the poor fellow's expression. In truth, he had been incredibly bad tempered since returning from his last Northern campaign with a broken ankle and a badly dislocated shoulder. Despite his foul mood at the prospect of being largely immobile for the better part of two months, he had stubbornly refused to allow Lucy to heal him with her cordial. A month into his enforced inactivity he was beginning to regret that decision, and his mood was steadily becoming more quarrelsome with each passing day.

"Your majesty?" the dwarf repeated timidly when Peter showed no signs of acknowledging him further. "A message arrived for you, your majesty; from the Lone Islands." He held out a roll of parchment sealed with the governor's official seal, and Peter sighed again.

"Thank you, Brickle. There's no use waiting for my reply." He hoped the dismissal was clear enough and was not sure who was more relieved, himself or the dwarf, when Brickle bowed quickly and hurried out of the room.

He broke the seal hastily and groaned when the parchment unfurled into what seemed doomed to be a very long and detailed report. The governor was a decent sort of chap, but he had a terrible habit of waxing poetic on all topics, from taxes to the price of ale in the local taverns. Edmund had once remarked that the Calormen and their influence on the Islands were likely to blame for the flowery language displayed by the nobles, and Peter now found himself reluctantly inclined to agree.

 _Athelstan, by the gift of Aslan, by appointment and by birth, governor of the Lone Islands and Lord of Narrowhaven, to Peter, by the gift of Aslan, by election, by prescription, and by conquest, High King over all Kings in Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands and Lord of Cair Paravel, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion; Greetings._

 _My dear and most noble king-_

Peter found himself tempted, not for the first time upon receiving correspondence from Athelstan, to throw the parchment into the nearest fire and have done with it. _Really, how much time must he waste on ridiculous greetings? I know my titles, and his, well enough that I do not need to be endlessly reminded of them._ He half considered hobbling to the library in search of his brother and forcing Edmund to read the missive, but it was still early enough in the day for him to be acutely aware how dangerous that particular course of action would prove. Edmund was likely to be more short tempered than he was himself until mid-day-or at the very least until his fifth mug of coffee. There was nothing for it; Peter leaned back more comfortably in his chair, glared at his ankle when it protested against the movement, and reluctantly turned his attention back to the letter.

 _My dear and most noble king, greetings in these dark times. As you may be aware from my past correspondence, the Council of Narrowhaven is proving unduly troublesome. Despite repeated pleas by me for their more reasonable behaviour, they continue to blatantly flout your royal decrees and my edicts, and are openly supporting a movement for a secession of these Islands from the lands of Narnia. I am certain I need not tell you how disastrous this would prove for both of us. The councilmen are likely to call for my execution, should they succeed in wresting my power from me by trickery or by military force, and I can but hope that this circumstance will prove as distasteful to you, most esteemed king, as it is to me._

 _High King, I beg your aid immediately though it shames me to do so. I can no longer hold these Islands or fulfill the capacity you have entrusted me with unless you render me such aid as shall best crush this talk of secession. I would beg your majesty dispatch some portion of your army with all haste, and perhaps it will not trouble you too much to attend the next Council meeting in person or at the very least to send your royal brother in your stead? I beg you receive these tidings with the utmost consideration of their serious nature._

 _I remain your ever-faithful servant and the faithful servant of Aslan and Aslan's great Father, The Emperor Over the Sea. May Aslan's Blessings be upon you and your noble family and all those who dwell in your fair land._

 _Signed, Athelstan, Governor of the Lone Islands and Lord of Narrowhaven._

He read the missive through once more to be certain he had not mistaken its meaning and sighed for what seemed the hundredth time that morning. Given the circumstances outlined in Athelstan's letter, it did not seem an overreaction for the governor to request his presence and he briefly considered the necessity of sending for Lucy and her cordial. But no, he had long since decreed that the cordial be saved for only the direst of circumstances-since no one knew how many drops the bottle held. It would not do for him to prove himself hypocritical merely to allay the inconvenience of his situation.

 _Besides,_ he reflected (slightly more smugly than the situation merited), _Edmund is the diplomat. I may as well send him as go myself, and by doing so I may spare myself the ordeal of dealing with Athelstan. In my current mood, I'm more likely to order his execution than I am to find a resolution to the situation. Unless…unless I can solve two problems simultaneously._ The sudden, inspired thought was enough to make him smile and nearly forget his ill mood.

"Brickle!" His ill mood returned somewhat when the dwarf in question did not immediately reappear. _Lion's Mane! Is it too much to ask for a servant who responds?_ "BRICKLE!" Yet still there was no response, and no ruddy faced dwarf rushed into the room. "BRI-"

"Did you need something, your majesty?" asked a somewhat harried sounding voice from the vicinity of the fireplace and Brickle tumbled into the grate, so covered in soot that even his bright red hair appeared dark.

"What the blazes were you doing in the chimney?" Peter demanded, forgetting for a moment the reason he had summoned the hapless servant.

Brickle had the good sense to look abashed and stared down at his filthy boots. "Cleaning, your majesty."

"Cleaning?" If Lucy had seen his expression at that moment she would have giggled and asked if his eyebrows were trying to escape from his face. "Without a brush, good cousin?" The unfortunate Brickle shuffled his feet and said nothing. "Perhaps you would be so good as to inform my spying brother that I require his presence. Send for Queen Lucy as well, if you would." Brickle bowed hurriedly and seemed about to bolt from room, but Peter couldn't quite resist calling after him. "Oh, and Brickle?"

"Yes, your majesty?" he mumbled miserably, tugging at his sooty beard.

"I would advise against telling King Edmund that you thought hiding in the chimney would be an effective method of keeping an eye on me." Despite his cross mood, Peter could not help being amused by the latest antics of Edmund's rather inept agent.

Brickle grinned, obviously relieved that Peter would not mention the details of his failure to Edmund, and gratefully backed out of the room, tracking a good bit of soot with him. Peter rubbed a hand across his eyes and glared at the trail of grime. Susan would doubtless be very displeased at the current state of his chambers, even if there had not now been a fine layer of soot covering the floor around the hearth and leading to the door-that meant servants with buckets and brooms and other various cleaning implements for him to trip over should he even attempt walking.

He glared at his ankle yet again and muttered an eloquent and heartfelt curse against the giant who had managed to injure him. There were few things that Peter hated more than being forced into a state of inactivity by an injury, especially one he felt was as trivial as a broken ankle.

Edmund arrived to hear the last few words of his phrase and raised his eyebrows sardonically, but wisely did not comment (he most certainly had no right to). He dropped gracefully into the chair opposite Peter, sighing in annoyance.

"Care to tell me why Brickle is covered in enough soot to block a chimney?" As far as morning conversations with Edmund went, this one was beginning better than Peter had hoped.

"I should have guessed he was one of yours," Peter remarked lightly, studiously avoiding answering the question. "Care to tell me why you find it necessary to spy on me?"

"I'm not spying on you, I am ensuring that you stay out of trouble and in your chambers where you belong." Despite his denial, Edmund looked distinctly annoyed at being caught.

 _Rather too annoyed to be believable,_ Peter thought with more than a little amusement. "I see. And to do so you saw it necessary to assign your most inept spy to watch me?"

Edmund grinned somewhat sheepishly. "I thought you might find it rather amusing. You are drearier than a Marsh-wiggle and more cross than a mountain giant when you're bored."

Peter had to admit it was an accurate assessment of his temperament, and it was true enough that Brickle's antics had proved amusing. He shrugged in defeat and allowed himself to smile. Edmund seemed inordinately pleased by this response, and his face took on an expression which could only be described as gloating.

"As entertaining as this conversation is, I am assuming you didn't interrupt a Council meeting to talk about Brickle's inept methods of spying?"

 _Council meeting?_

His brother sighed in response to his blank look and shook his head in mock despair. "I think, perhaps, it was your royal skull that giant crushed, rather than your ankle. Perhaps you have entirely forgotten that the Council meets every Firstday? Alas, that I cannot so quickly forget it," he added with a hint of real annoyance. "I much prefer the Parliament meetings, at least those are at a reasonable hour." The Narnian Parliament was comprised mainly of Owls and met every Fifthday an hour after Sunset as opposed to the Council, which convened an hour before breakfast every Firstday, and much to the dismay of both brothers, often lasted until midday.

"Rest assured my skull is as thick as ever, I simply forgot it was Firstday. I hope I didn't interrupt anything of import?" He felt rather guilty at missing another Council meeting due to the healers' insistence that he remain in his chambers. It was entirely unfair that Edmund should have to deal with the often quarrelsome nobles on his own.

Edmund shook his head, scowling and still presumably bemoaning the earliness of the hour and the necessity of missing breakfast, and therefore, coffee. "Not really," he said at last. "Just rumours of impending war with Calormen, ambassadors arriving from Telmar, and apparently suitors arriving to plead for Susan's hand in marriage."

"The usual then?" Peter found it rather amusing that the Council was still addressing the same matters it had been the month previously.

Edmund nodded, then turned his head to peer out the window at the sun's position in the sky. "They'll be debating the finer points of our current treaty with Calormen for a good two hours yet. Now, what was so important?"

Peter glanced back at the door impatiently. "We should wait for Lucy; you don't happen to know where she is, do you?"

Edmund leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, obviously intending to sleep if Lucy did not arrive soon. "No idea, she doesn't require constant watching. Lucy, at least, knows how to keep out of trouble."

Peter chose to ignore the rather pointed remark in favour of being quietly amused at the idea of _Lucy_ managing to keep out of trouble. True, her troublesome situations usually involved torn dresses, skinned knees, and inordinate amounts of mud rather than skilled assassins or disgruntled countesses armed with cutlery (that is an entirely different story and has doubtless been told in other places), but Lucy seemed to find trouble nearly as often as Peter and Edmund combined. At least, if Susan's accounting of her various escapades was to be believed.

As if his thoughts had conjured her, Lucy came sweeping into the room in a swirl of muddy skirts and disheveled golden curls. Surprisingly, she was not accompanied by her usual trail of equally muddy small Animals and, other than the state of her skirt and hair, she appeared nearly proper enough to keep Susan from despair.

She kissed Peter soundly on the cheek, wisely avoided repeating the action with Edmund, and, heedless of the soot, sprawled down before the hearth.

Edmund opened one eye and smirked at her disheveled appearance. "Nice of you to join us, Lu. What was it this time; a troupe of lost Rabbits perhaps?"

Lucy scowled in mock indignation and tossed one of her thoroughly muddy shoes at him; Edmund caught it deftly and tossed it back with a vaguely disgusted expression. "You can't have been waiting that long! Brickle only found me five minutes ago and I came straight up, and it wasn't the Rabbits this time. I was helping the Dryads tend to the gardens. Really," this to Peter, "what could be so important to call me indoors on such a beautiful day?"

Peter passed Edmund the governor's letter, and Lucy scrambled to her feet to read the document over her brother's shoulder. Peter smiled at the look of annoyance on Edmund's face-he absolutely hated it when anyone read over his shoulder and Lucy was the only one who could do so and escape being smacked soundly over the head with whatever he was reading at that particular moment. Peter had learned that lesson very quickly when the book Edmund had happened to be reading at the time was a very weighty treatise on Calormen law.

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Lucy, her sunny expression clouding when she finished reading. "Poor Governor Athelstan! It must be terrible for him to know his own counselors are plotting to overthrow him." Edmund said nothing as he reread the letter quickly, but his expression darkened.

"What are you going to do, Peter?" Lucy asked, dropping back to her seat on the floor. "You simply cannot go to Doorn with your ankle, should I fetch my cordial?"

"I'll go," Edmund offered simply, half rising from his chair already. "I'm sure the dockmaster can have the Splendor Hyaline ready to sail by the end of the day."

"I'm sure he can," Peter agreed, silently bracing himself for the coming explosion. "But you won't be going; Lucy will."

"Have you entirely taken leave of your senses?" Far from being explosively angry, Edmund's voice was entirely calm, and Peter groaned inwardly. _Why can't he just shout and have done with it?_

"No offense, Lu," Edmund continued in the same quiet tone. "But I really don't see how you can believe it wise to send _Lucy_ into what could become a diplomatic nightmare or a dangerous military situation in a matter of moments and one misplaced word."

"And that," said Peter slowly, choosing his next words with utmost care, "is precisely _why_ I am sending Lucy. Provided of course, that you are willing to go, Lu?"

Lucy frowned slightly, glancing between her two brothers with obvious unease. "Of course, I'll go if that's what you want me to do, but I can't help think Edmund is right. After all, he is the diplomatic one and I'm rubbish at politics."

Edmund was obviously still considering Peter's last statement, and Peter could identify the exact moment his quick-witted brother understood the reasoning behind the plan. His scowl faded abruptly, replaced by a thoughtful look as he studied the letter in his hand. "I think you may be right, Pete. They won't expect Lucy and they will doubtless underestimate both her capabilities and her intelligence."

"Precisely." Peter allowed himself a moment to feel rather pleased at his own brilliance. "If you or I go the councilmen will know what to expect and be on their guard; if Lucy goes they will likely fail to see her as a legitimate threat and will be more prone to making mistakes and betraying themselves."

Lucy still looked rather uncertain. "I really am terrible at politics, and deceiving people. Oh dear! What if I make a terrible mess of everything and the councilmen succeed in seceding? Even saying it is problematic!"

Peter was unsurprised when Edmund happily accepted the challenge of convincing Lucy that she was more than capable. "Politics really have very little to do with it Lu, situations like this are nearly always driven by greed rather than political precedent. You just have to keep your eyes and ears open and pretend to understand nothing at all about it. I'm sure that you'll have all the proof of treason you need within a week, and your guards can escort the guilty members of the Council back to Cair Paravel to be tried. You'll manage it beautifully."

Lucy nodded, still somewhat reluctantly, but managed a smile. "If you really think I can do it. I suppose I should pack," she ran a hand through her messy curls and smiled a touch ruefully. "And comb my hair, otherwise Susan is likely to do it herself." She rushed out in the same flurry of brown mud and golden hair as she had entered, and Peter smiled fondly after her. He was inclined to wonder optimistically if she might resolve the situation in the Lone Islands simply by smiling at the Council. _If only it were that simple._

Edmund stood as if to follow her, but stopped in the door to look back thoughtfully. "You know, dear brother, despite my frequent comments to the contrary you are rather intelligent."

"Thank you?" _I think._

"You cannot have failed to wonder if the current political climate in the Lone Islands is entirely the product of a few greedy Lords' scheming. It seems likely to me that the people may be discontent as well, and the support for the Council may be greater than we have been lead to believe."

"No, that possibility has not escaped me," Peter agreed heavily. "You may as well sit back down; our own Council will have to do without your return today, I'm afraid."

"It is their loss, not mine," Edmund remarked lightly as he dropped back into the chair. "I take it I will be going to Narrowhaven after all?"

Peter nodded, unsurprised that Edmund had at least partially guessed the rest of his plan.

"But not on board a Narnian ship or under my own name. Perhaps a merchant ship to Galma and then on to Doorn?" he paused, frowned slightly, and them shook his head. "No, not Galma. The problem doubtless originates with Calormen and their influence on the Islands. So, from here to Tashbaan, and then to Narrowhaven. There is a Calormen merchant vessel docked here that leaves for Tashbaan tomorrow morning; I daresay a northern merchant who is distantly descended from a minor Calormen house could manage to book passage."

"I daresay such a person could," Peter agreed dryly.

"And if that merchant happens to do a little spying in Tashbaan before continuing on to the Lone Islands, the Tisroc, may his ignorance be matched only by his cowardice, will never be the wiser to it." Edmund was very obviously enjoying the prospect of escaping council meetings in favour of spying on Calormen and the Council of Narrowhaven; his eyes were sparkling with slightly ghoulish glee.

Peter almost regretted the next aspect of his plan; he very much doubted Edmund would find it quite so agreeable. Still, it was necessary for his relative peace of mind, especially after what had occurred the last time Edmund visited Tashbaan. "Do you think you could formulate a similarly suitable story for the fair haired Archenlander who will be accompanying you?"

True to his prediction, Edmund scowled at the question and crossed his arms. "I could, if I were stupid enough to take such a person with me. That Archenlander would not happen to have a broken ankle, would he?"

"No," Peter reassured him quickly enough to utterly destroy the notion he intended to accompany Edmund himself. "But you are taking Peridan with you."

Edmund stared at him, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again and continued staring as if Peter had taken leave of his senses. "Peridan?" he managed to croak put at last, looking truly aghast.

Peridan was the most recent addition to the Narnian court and had, until a month prior been residing in Anvard as an advisor to King Lune. Lune had reluctantly relinquished his services when Peridan begged to return to his family's ancestral lands near Cair Paravel, and Peter had equally reluctantly accepted his services as Royal Advisor. Peter's reluctance had little to do with Peridan himself (he was an able enough advisor and a pleasant enough person) and more to do with that fact that the Archenlander seemed utterly in awe of all four of Narnia's rulers. This had proved rather trying on more than one occasion, and Peter was close to despairing that Peridan would ever prove a valuable asset to the court.

"Peter, if I wanted to be captured and executed for treason I would take you along, broken ankle and all, or Brickle. Since I am not taking either of you, then you can accurately conclude I am rather fond of continuing to breathe-unimpeded by my neck being severed. I might pass as a distant descendant of a Calormene family, Peridan certainly won't, and he provides the added disadvantage of being conspicuously polite to me. I doubt he could behave with the required stealth if his life, and mine, depended on it. And, both our lives are very likely to." The objections were raised in such a reasonable manner that Peter nearly found himself agreeing to withdraw the order. Then he shook himself, realising crossly that he had nearly fallen for the tactics that served Edmund so well when negotiating treaties; reason paired with just the right amount of sardonic humour and a charming smile.

"That was an admirable attempt, little brother, but my decision is final. Take Peridan with you and try not to get him killed."

Edmund growled something inaudible-which might have been _younger_ brother-and continued scowling. "I concede, under protest," he said at last with a reluctant shrug. "I might as well use this opportunity to find out if we can trust him or not, but I warn you, if he proves untrustworthy I will not guarantee his safety."

"I would not expect you to." _Have you ever not protested when making concessions?_ Peter added silently, though judging by the eye roll his _younger_ brother directed at him, Edmund had guessed what he was thinking.

"But really," Edmund continued, obviously serious about protesting the point. "Peridan? Have you ever managed a successful conversation with him?"

Peter thought about it for a moment and scowled. He had, in fact, had several conversations with the new Royal Advisor and all of them had proved mightily trying. Peridan was so deferential in manner that he risked being forever labeled as a fawning imbecile by his fellow advisors. Peter suspected that he would prove a decent sort of fellow in common company, but his overstated respect for all Narnian dignitaries often proved the most foolproof way for Peter to acquire a headache. Still, he wasn't about to tell Edmund that.

"Have you tried to have a successful conversation with him?" he countered calmly.

Edmund shrugged dismissively. "I didn't try particularly hard after the sixth time he used my full title. If he does that in Calormen, I swear I'll-" But just what Edmund planned to do should such a circumstance arise Peter would not discover, for at that very moment a terrible clamour arose from the courtyard below the window.

Edmund paused in mid-sentence with a frown, crossed the room quickly to look down in the direction of the disturbance, and immediately laughed at the spectacle that greeted him. Peter growled in annoyance and stumbled to his feet (or more accurately, foot), holding the other foot which was attached to his injured ankle several inches off the floor, and hopped precariously forward to join Edmund at the window.

He arrived just in time to identify the retinues of Susan's three most recent suitors and a moment later found himself torn between laughing and cursing. The Telmarine Duke, instantly recognisable by his dark hair and pointed beard, had just punched the Galman Lord, who Peter was rather inclined to like more than the others. The Galman stumbled back, straight into the Calormen Tarkaan, who immediately dropped a warning hand onto the hilt of his scimitar. The guards intervened before a fight could break out in earnest, and Peter breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of blood and entrails on the paving stones.

Edmund laughed heartily at his expression and clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to nearly send Peter tumbling to the floor. "You know, Pete, perhaps Peridan's company won't be so bad after all. At least I won't be stuck here with three quarreling suitors and a very cross Susan."

Still laughing he stalked out of the room, leaving Peter to glare after him and silently berate himself for not accepting Lucy's cordial when he had the chance. Susan was always incredibly cross when there were multiple suitors quarreling over her hand in marriage, and Peter often found himself more inclined to run the fellows through than hold civil conversation with them. He was reluctantly forced to admit he felt rather envious of Lucy and Edmund both as he hopped back to his chair with a sigh. He determined then, that there was _nothing_ he hated more than forced inaction while everyone else dispersed to do various, useful things. He could only hope that his siblings would return to find all of Susan's suitors still in possession of their limbs and their wits-limited though the latter may be to begin with.

 **A few additional notes: First, I would like to thank my beta reader PaintingMusic14 for once again proving herself indispensable.**

 **Second, the incident involving disgruntled countesses armed with cutlery has actually not been recounted elsewhere...it could be though, if anyone is interested.**

 **Third, this story is intended to read somewhat differently than my previous work. It involves much more research for accuracy, and at times draws heavily from political theory, theology, and WWII era espionage. Since all of these things require a good bit of research and complicated revision, updates will likely not be quite as swift as they have been on past stories. And yes, I really do mean it this time. I have a number of chapters already written, and am in the process of revising and proofing them, so updates will be on a weekly basis for the foreseeable future.**

 **And lastly, please review! I love hearing what you think :-) Guest/Anonymous reviews are always welcome as are single word reviews such as "good", "terrible", "boring", etc. Thanks for reading!**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	2. Under Foreign Skies

**Someone smack me over the head...I am supposed to be updating on a WEEKLY basis, yet here I am, nearly two days sooner than planned. Ah well, I was simply too impatient to hear what you all think of this chapter. Thank you for all the lovely reviews on the first chapter! Also, pay close attention to the dates listed at the beginning of every chapter-they will become very important later.**

 _7_ _th._ _of Greenroof, 1012—Second-day_

At dawn the next day a more remarkable than may have been wished pair of merchants boarded the Calormene merchant vessel, _The Bolt of Tash_. The elder, and slightly taller of the two, was muffled in a thick sailor's cloak that nearly hid the glint of his fair hair and he kept his head bent with his eyes downcast. Nearly everyone on board the ship noticed him immediately, perhaps more due to his attempts at seeming unremarkable then because of his actually appearance, and within ten minutes rumours about his identity were spreading from prow to stern. Most agreed that he was, in all likelihood, a minor lord of some sort who, having fallen upon hard times, was now fleeing Narnia, or Archenland, in the hopes of avoiding the debt collectors pursuing him.

His younger companion was so utterly unlike him that it seemed nearly impossible they should be traveling together. While the first was secretive, nervous and silent his companion was bare headed, walked with a confidant stride, and was as free with his gold as he was with his conversation. There was no need to speculate about his circumstances or the purpose of his sudden trip to Calormen. He readily revealed that he was a distant descendant of a long ago disgraced and banished Calormene family and was now returning to his ancestral land in hopes of finding favor there. He had fallen in with the hapless Archenlander in his travels and pledged to help him establish a name for himself as a merchant—should his own fortunes prove bright.

These two were of course Edmund and Peridan, and despite all Edmund's warnings to the contrary Peridan was trailing after him in a most deferential manner and persisting in addressing him as "My lord". Once they had boarded the ship and were safely below decks Edmund did not hesitate to show his considerable frustration with his companion's actions.

"Are you trying to get us killed?" he demanded, slamming the cabin door sharply while trying, and failing to remain patient.

"N-no, your majesty," stammered Peridan uncertainly, discarding the heavy cloak with visible relief—the morning was fast becoming far too warm for such heavy attire.

"And yet you persist in addressing me formally. What do you presume would happen if a Tarkaan or Calormene soldier were to hear you address me as one would address a king?" Edmund glared at the cabin door and attempted to behave reasonably despite the earliness of the hour. _I suppose it isn't entirely his fault,_ he admitted grudgingly.

"I presume it would be most inconvenient, my lord."

"If you consider being captured and executed by the Calormen to be inconvenient then you are correct."

The ship lurched slightly as it cast off and Peridan's face immediately turned a rather sickly shade of green. He put a hand to his head, stumbled drizzly, and gratefully sank onto the one chair on the cabin. A moment later he leapt to his feet, mumbling an indistinct apology and appearing horrified that he had presumed, not only to sit in the presence of royalty without invitation, but to appropriate the only chair.

Edmund sighed, shook his head in combined amusement and annoyance, and nodded in the direction of the chair. "Sit down, preferably before you are sick. I take it you've never been at sea before?" _Peter, I take it back; I would much rather deal with Susan's suitors._

Peridan shook his head, looking more ill than ever as the ship rocked slightly, turning towards the open sea. "No, my lord. Is it always so rough?"

 _And this a mere five minutes from port in perfect calm._ "No; it is usually a good deal worse." It was rather amusing to watch what little colour remained in Peridan's face fade from it as he groaned and dropped his head forward into his hands, although he did fell slightly sorry for him.

"Is there anything that will help? I feel as though I've drunk an entire barrel of mead. I swear I haven't, your majesty," he added quickly, as if Edmund would suspect alcohol to be the cause of his present troubles.

Edmund shrugged and began rummaging through the pack he had brought with him. "I really couldn't say, though Peter seems to find lying still in the dark and cursing to be somewhat effective. That and behaving like an utter prat until no one can bear his company." _Blast! I was certain I brought a second knife, where the blazes did I put it?_ It would have been considered unusual for a pair of aspiring merchants to openly carry weapons, but that did not mean Edmund had any wish to be defenseless. His own knife was safely hidden inside his right boot, but he highly doubted Peridan had thought of making similar preparations.

Surprised at Peridan's silence he glanced up from the pack to find the older man watching him with a very odd expression on his face. He seemed torn between horror, and reproach and it took Edmund only a moment to identify the cause of his consternation. _Peter, I am liable to murder you when I get back._ "Peter, my brother, the High King? Perhaps you've met him?"

" _Never let them see how frustrating their actions prove to you,"_ Metelus, his longtime friend and tutor had counseled him once. He had been speaking then of visiting dignitaries, nobles, and ladies, but Edmund had long since learned the advice was sound in a vast array of situations—such as dealing with an overzealous courtier. In such circumstances he had often found sarcastic humour to be a most effective weapon in masking frustration, as it both confounded the troublesome individuals and allowed him to marshal his patience. He wasn't entirely certain that it was working in this case, however.

"Yes, of course, but, good my lord, surely it is not entirely proper to insult the High King?" The look on Peridan's face was mightily amusing; nearly, but not quite, amusing enough for Edmund to let the still too formal method of address pass. He was beginning to feel ever more sorry for Peridan; it was hardly his fault he had been brought up in Archenland where formality was valued far more than it was in Narnia. But, however sorry for him he felt now, they would both be a good deal sorrier if Peridan persisted in his habits.

"He is my brother; I'll call him what I like and if he takes issue with it I daresay he'll throw something at my head when next I see him. Perhaps you should concern yourself less with what I call my brother and more with what you call me? I have told you once already, but it seems I must do so again for the sake of clarity." Not even Lucy or Metelus could have successfully prevented him from showing his annoyance at having to repeat himself and he was quite certain Peter would not have bothered trying. "For the duration of this trip, or until a change of circumstance necessitates a change in plan, my name is Edreth and yours is Perin. If you cannot manage to address me by name, then at least refrain from addressing me in any manner that will generate suspicion." He waited to see Peridan nod before turning back to rummaging through the pack again.

The knife he was certain he had not forgotten to pack was still nowhere to be found, and Edmund was quickly losing patience. With a muttered curse he upended the sturdy canvas pack and shook it, sending its various contents tumbling out onto the narrow cot. A shirt of Calormene mail, a good-sized earthenware jug, the contents of which he devoutly hoped would not be needed, a considerable length of plain white cloth, an assortment of clothes, bandages, papers, books, and-at last-a straight hunting knife in a plain leather sheath.

He tossed the knife in Peridan's direction with a smirk, half expecting the other man to miss catching it. To his credit, Peridan did manage to intercept the weapon, though he looked at it dubiously, as if afraid it would spring to life and cut his hand.

"I presume you can fight?"

"Yes, your-my lord, well, not well enough to be relied upon, but well enough to survive."

 _Wonderful!_ Edmund though sarcastically as he shoved the various items back into the pack in no particular order. _Is there anything he_ can _do?_ "Apparently you are also rubbish at following instructions." _"Pot, kettle,"_ he seemed to hear Peter saying in his most amused voice but chose to ignore it for the moment. Peter wasn't there, and if he had been Edmund wasn't entirely sure he would be able to keep from punching him for sending him such a frustrating companion.

"Oh. My apologies, my lord, I assumed since no one was listening there was no need to address you informally." He looked thoroughly miserable and Edmund wasn't sure if was due to the lurching of the ship or his latest slip in character.

 _Patience,_ he reminded himself silently. (It should be noted that, while Edmund had obtained a quite accurate reputation for being the more patient of Narnia's kings it was a skill which did not come naturally to him, but was the result of long practice and many grumbling in private.) _Everyone begins somewhere._ "You will soon find it is usually best to assume someone is _always_ listening." He smiled slightly at Peridan's disconcerted expression, tossed the pack carelessly under the cot and turn to the door. "Try to get some sleep if you can; it will be a good three days before we dock at Tashbaan."

"What are you planning to do, your-sir—" he paused seemed to struggle with the words and at last managed to ask the question in its improper but necessary form. "What will you be doing?"

Edmund grinned back at him as he pushed the door open, relieved beyond measure when Peridan managed the question without a title attached to it. "Spying," he remarked airily, and pulled the door closed after him.

There were few things Edmund loved more than spying, or as Lucy liked to call it "gathering information by underhanded means". He suspected she had read the phrase in a book somewhere and immediately decided she liked it, and, as she had told him once, "spying is far too simple and common a word for what you do, dear brother". She was right as far as an observer's viewpoint was concerned, but Edmund himself rarely saw his methods of gathering information as particularly difficult or complicated. Slipping into the mannerisms of a created persona was something that had always come naturally to him, though, much to his annoyance, that skill seemed to vanish in the presence of his family members. It also did not seem to extend to fools, Susan's suitors, or potentially sycophantic Royal Advisors.

He gratefully left Peridan—retching and temporarily incapable of causing unwarranted trouble—below decks, summoned up a smile that would not be in the least sincere until a far later hour, and went to gather what information he could from the crew and other passengers. The crew were mainly Calormenes, with the few Terebinthians and Galmans appearing conspicuous due to their fair hair and lighter skin, and the passengers were all Calormen merchants who, having sold their goods in Narnia and Archenland, were now bound for home.

He talked with anyone willing to spare him a second glance and gathered, in the space of half an hour, a veritable wealth of information—both useful and not. The helmsman, a short Calormen with a greying beard and hawk-like eyes, was all too willing to complain of pirates in the waters near Galma, and of strange, shadowy creatures (that he seemed to believe were some manner of sea serpents) off the coast of Terebinthia. Edmund quickly dismissed the later as fanciful nonsense and filed the former away for more careful consideration at a later time.

When he cautiously inquired if there had been similar things seen near the Lone Islands, or if there was any news from Narrowhaven, the sailor's mood changed abruptly. His expression darkened, and he shook his head emphatically while bringing the palm of his right hand up to cover the bridge of his nose and the centre of his forehead. Edmund recognised the gesture as one the Calormene ambassador was wont to use when he felt the need to invoke the protection of Tash against some danger and wondered what could be so frightening as to necessitate such a plea to the demon.

"It's worth more than my life to tell you that, young master," he informed Edmund with an air of absolute finality, and he would say no more on the matter. Edmund smiled, assured him it had only been an idle request, and moved on, sending a silent and heartfelt expression of thanks to Aslan that Calormene sailors were more plain speaking and less given to using flowery epitaphs than their land-dwelling kin. If he had asked the question in Tashbaan, or another of the Calormene cities, it would likely have been hours before he managed to slip away.

The cook was slightly more helpful and volunteered the information that a fleet of Calormene warships had recently departed Tashbaan, bound for parts unknown. When Edmund mentioned the Lone Islands however, the fellow's reaction was much the same as the helmsman's had been.

So it followed with the rest of the crew and the half dozen or so Calormene merchants on board. They all seemed ready enough to share gossip, to tell tall tales of sea monsters, and even to insult the governance of the Tisroc—leading Edmund to suspect that the Tisroc's people, who knew very well that he would _not_ live forever, were simply waiting for him to die in anticipation of the spectacle his sons fighting over his throne would surely provide. But, without fail it took only a mention of the Lone Islands for even the most loquacious sailor to become surly, silent, and thoroughly frightened.

By the time the ship docked in Tashbaan three days later Edmund found that he was heartily sick of his questions being avoided and he was entirely convinced everyone on board knew more than they were saying. Peridan was heartily sick as well—though in a more literal way and for entirely different reasons—and Edmund had been quite content to avoid him as much as possible. He had always shared Lucy's dislike of being confined to a cabin while at sea and had been more than happy to spend his nights above deck, watching the stars spin above him in the sky, and turning his troubled thoughts over and over in his head. The conclusions he was reaching were ever more troubling and it was becoming very clear what he must do. He supposed he had known all along, and wondered if Peter had figured it out yet.

 _Probably not,_ he had thought, with a hint of grim amusement and sighed.

Sadly, it no longer proved possible to avoid Peridan once they were on solid ground again and Edmund silently resigned himself to tolerating his still too deferential companion. For his part Peridan seemed uninclined to conversation as he staggered down the gangway, struggled to find his balance when he reached the cobbled street, and promptly tripped over his own feet and sat down heavily in the dust.

"Give yourself a moment to find your balance," Edmund cautioned, keeping his own balance with an ease borne of long practice as he scanned the surrounding streets and buildings.

The docks were on the very edge of Tashbaan, far enough from the palaces and grand houses that the smell of fish would not disturb the wealthy citizens, but there were a good number of inns in the immediate vicinity. Judging by Peridan's pallor and unsteadiness it would be unwise to venture further than necessary into the city that day and Edmund sighed yet again as he helped his companion to his feet. _I don't have time for this._

"If memory serves there is an only slightly disreputable inn some hundred yards further up the street. Can you walk?" _He's worse than Peter; at least Peter recovers well and quickly enough on dry land._

Peridan nodded, looking distinctly sullen and followed him, only a trifle unsteadily, as they made their way through the press of people towards the less crowded end of the street.

Edmund remembered a time when Tashbaan had been a city that both fascinated and disgusted him. It now merely disgusted him. The wealthy merchants, nobles, and anyone else with enough money lived in luxurious and ridiculous comfort while, mere yards away, those less fortunate starved in the streets. That would have been bad enough had it not been for the flourishing trade in slaves-some captured from the islands, some from Narnian and Archenland, but the majority from the Calormene villages themselves. It never ceased to amaze and anger him that any ruler should permit such blatant mistreatment of his own people, and not merely permit it, but actively promote it.

Peridan's expression displayed a similar disgust and distress and Edmund was glad of it. An incompetent operative and slightly sycophantic advisor he would grudgingly tolerate, but a proponent of slavery and injustice was the type of man he could not in good conscience allow to remain at the heart of Cair Paravel. _There may be hope for him yet._

Peridan prided himself on possessing at least some degree of intelligence. It had served him well enough in Archenland, allowing him to garner favour with the other lords-though he always suspected that King Lune would have preferred him to be more forthright and less courtly in his behaviour. Whatever the King would have preferred he still had found no fault with Peridan's service and had been reluctant to see him go.

Peridan had dreamed of returning to his family's ancestral home since he had first been able to understand the reasons his great grandfather had been forced to flee. While the Witch held sway over the land there was no possibility for returning, but when word had come that she was dead, and Narnia was once more under the governance of human monarchs, Peridan's longing had been rekindled.

It had taken him ten years to achieve a position in King Lune's court that was elevated enough it would give him a legitimate claim for being able to aid Narnia's young rulers. The intelligence he so prided himself on possessing had served him well and he had learned quickly that there was nothing lords loved more than being treated with more respect than they had earned. As the years passed he found himself falling more and more into the trap set by flattering and groveling to achieve his ends, until at last the honest, frankly speaking man he had been in his youth seemed lost forever.

That brought him to his current predicament. A young man still, though rapidly approaching thirty, Royal Advisor to the Narnian Kings, and currently traipsing through the choking dust and blinding heat of Tashbaan in summer as he trailed after the younger of the kings while trying to keep his nausea at bay.

He had lately suffered no little confusion concerning how ineffective his ordinary means of currying favour had proved to be. Narnians in general, it seemed, cared little for formalities, and their rulers even less so. High King Peter had tolerated his high formal method of address with visible frustration, Queen Susan had been gracious but dismissive, Queen Lucy had actually giggled when addressed by her full title, and countless times in the past three days he had found himself ducking as King Edmund threw a book at his head in response to being addressed even as simply "my lord". It was incredibly frustrating, bewildering, and if he was entirely honest with himself, infuriating.

"Perin!" He was so deep in thought it momentarily did not register that King Edmund was addressing him. The King was watching him with some amusement from the low door of a decrepit inn. "Unless you fancy having your throat slit for your gold I would suggest joining me." He ducked through the door and Peridan, who had no desire to find his throat slit for any reason, followed him quickly.

It was unlike any inn or tavern in Narnia or Archenland. The place was filthy, the floor littered with broken plates and drunken men sleeping slumped against their overturned chairs. The windows were shuttered over and the only light came from a few smoking tapers that provided little illumination and only served to add to the stuffy heat that pervaded the room. A few scantily clad women with painted faces moved among the jumble, speaking softly, and Peridan would have been a fool not to guess their office. He shuddered and followed King Edmund swiftly, pulling the hood of his cloak farther forward despite the heat. He got the distinct impression that Northerners were not welcome here.

Thankfully no one seemed to take notice of them as King Edmund crossed to a table in the corner, moved two of the three chairs until their backs were against the wall, and dropped into one indicating that Peridan should take the other. The innkeeper, a wizened old man with greedy eyes, was summoned and moments later two tankards of very cheap and unspeakably foul ale were deposited on the filthy table top. Peridan took a sip, nearly choked, and pushed the tankard away. King Edmund's lips twitched in a smile as he studied the liquid in his own tankard and wisely did not drink. A moment later Peridan saw him tense and he cursed, quietly but very sincerely.

"What is it, my lord?" Peridan asked automatically, before he could stop the title from attaching itself to the question. The King barely spared him a glance in annoyance before jerking his chin towards the high counter on the other side of the room.

"The Tarkaan, the tall fellow at the bar," he said quietly, not taking his eyes from the armed and turbaned figure. "I know him, rather too well for comfort in fact. Keep your head down and your mouth shut."

There was what seemed to be genuine surprise and shock in the king's voice and Peridan found that he no objections to doing precisely as he was told. A very tense moment passed in which he fervently hoped the Tarkaan would not notice them. Luck, however, was not with them and the tall figure turned, eyes fixing on King Edmund's face with a predatory look as he stalked towards them.

The King sighed, muttered another curse, and quite suddenly his demeanor changed. His shoulders relaxed, his expression became unconcerned, bordering on boredom. By the time the Tarkaan reached their table there was no trace of trepidation or annoyance remaining on King Edmund's face and Peridan found himself feeling a confused sort of admiration at his ability to change his manner so quickly. It was a skill Peridan himself did not possess and he pulled the cloak closer and attempted to fade into the shadows.

"Tarkaan Obridesh," King Edmund acknowledged with a nod, not raising his eyes from their scrutiny of the cheap ale in his tankard. "I must say, this is quite an unpleasant surprise. Although, considering your taste in companionship, I suppose I ought not to be surprised at finding you in the slums of Tashbaan." Peridan saw the corner of his mouth twitch, as if in amusement at some private joke, though he could see nothing remotely amusing about their current circumstances.

The Tarkaan snarled and Peridan fervently wished he retreat further into the shadows, or better yet run all the way back to Archenland. He was no stranger to dealing with Calormens and had quickly learned they did not respond well either to being mocked or to sarcastic humour. _Surely King Edmund knows this as well as I? Perhaps he is deliberately trying to infuriate the fellow?_ That course of action seemed surprisingly foolish, and foolishness was not something Peridan had come to associate with the young king.

"And you, oh most sagacious king?" sneered the Tarkaan, dropping drunkenly and uninvited into the vacant chair. "I have not heard tidings of a royal visit." He hiccupped, drained the contents of his goblet, and slammed the pewter vessel down on the filthy tabletop. "And you are dressed and accompanied most unbecomingly for one of your status. Could it be, oh noble sir, that the famed King Edmund of Narnian is spying like a common sneak?"

Peridan very much did not like the sudden, hard light in the Tarkaan's dark eyes. He wanted desperately to speak but doubted King Edmund would welcome his interference. Besides, the Tarkaan seemed as though he not yet taken notice of Peridan and was unlikely to listen to anything he had to say.

Edmund smiled lazily and leaned back in his chair, looking utterly at ease despite the feel of danger in the air. "And you, oh most venomous serpent?" he countered easily, watching the Tarkaan impassively. "Could it be that the most exalted and favoured advisor of the Tisroc, may he rot forever, has fallen _out_ of favour?"

Peridan flinched as King Edmund's words fell with the cruel precision of well-aimed blows. The Tarkaan glowered more darkly still, and when he did not verbally respond the King shrugged nonchalantly and continued speaking.

"It seems obvious enough to me. Your robes are worn, your beard undyed, and you have fallen so low as to visit the lower town in search of cheap spirits and cheaper company. The second two might be explicable when unaccompanied by the first; as it stands, oh most disgraced worm, it would seem you have lost your status. What was it, Obridesh? Did the grand vizier find you in the chambers of his favourite slave? Or perhaps," the King's voice turned truly venomous now and his eyes flashed dangerously, "Perhaps it was the chambers of his youngest son?"

"Perhaps the Tisroc, may he live forever, will find better favour for me when I return to him with a spying traitor's head!" The Tarkaan's chair crashed to the floor as he sprang to his feet with a roar of fury, drawing his scimitar with catlike swiftness. Quick as he was the Narnian king was quicker and before either Peridan or the Calormen could react he had disarmed the furious Tarkaan with a deft flick of his wrist and dropped, unconcernedly back into his chair. The knife that had appeared, as if by magic in his right hand, now disappeared just as swiftly back into his boot before he silently passed the Tarkaan's scimitar to Peridan.

Peridan accepted the blade, still shocked and attempting feebly to catch his breath and still his shaking hands. He had seen death in the Tarkaan's eyes, could not doubt his king had seen it too, but while he had been frozen in terrified inactivity King Edmund had acted with all the swift sureness of a striking snake.

"Perhaps," King Edmund agreed, nonchalantly summoning the innkeeper with a commanding wave of his hand. It took Peridan a moment to realise he was responding to the Tarkaan's prior statement as if the conversation had not been interrupted by murderous action. "But he will doubtless find less favour for you if you return, failing to have done more than scratch me. It will doubtless be your head upon the block now if you are foolish enough to admit having seen me."

The innkeeper approached warily, bowing and obviously expecting further violence. The King handed the man four times the amount of gold he owed and nodded to the Tarkaan's empty goblet. "A flask of your best wine for my friend, if you would good sir."

"At once, oh my master." The innkeeper bowed so low he missed the flash of disgust in the Narnian's eyes at the word master; Peridan did not.

"Now," King Edmund continued in a cheerfully conversational tone, smiling calmly at the still seething Calormen. "Since we have effectively gotten violent formalities out of the way, perhaps we can now converse in a more civilised manner."

"I have no civility for barbarian dogs!" the other man shot back, eyes blazing with impotent fury. Peridan edged away slightly, moving the man's scimitar further from his reach.

"Tsk. That really is not the way to address a friend, Obridesh." Again, there was a hint of sardonic amusement in King Edmund's voice and Peridan found himself wondering at it. He had heard stories of the younger king, the spymaster of Narnia, but had suspected them to be nonsense, now he found that he nearly believed them.

"Then I must praise the gods you are no friend of mine! May you drown in a river of your own blood, barbarian swine." He spat on the floor, but for all his vile words did not deny the flask of wine the innkeeper set at his elbow.

"I must admit to being surprised at you, Tarkaan. I thought you wise enough to make friends when necessary, and, seeing as no one else seems willing to aid you, I would consider my friendship necessary to your continued survival." He paused to stare thoughtfully into the murky depths of his tankard. Peridan had yet to see him drink and suspected the presence of the ale was simply another carefully calculated detail. "As for blood and drowning," he said a moment later, in a much different and darker voice. "I really cannot recommend it."

Peridan watched as he raised his gaze from the goblet to the Tarkaan's face and met his eyes. A flash of understanding seemed to pass briefly between them before the Tarkaan shifted uncomfortably and looked away.

Obridesh swiftly drained the contents of his goblet and clumsily poured another, peering blearily at Peridan and seeming to notice him for the first time. "And who is your companion, most distasteful ally? A bastard brother to your bastard of a brother?" The last comment was added when he caught a glimpse of Peridan's fair hair beneath the hood of his cloak.

It took a moment for Peridan to decipher the slurred words, but when he did, he nearly sprang to his feet to confront the drunkard who dared insult his High King; it was only King Edmund's hand on his wrist that stopped him. "Peace, Perin," he said softly, the warning plain. "For shame Tarkaan, that you should rail against your betters. Hath not one of your own poets said, "A distraught man must guard his tongue, lest his words prove unwise"?" His voice was calm as ever, but his right hand had clenched into a fist at the insult to his brother.

For the first time the Tarkaan looked as though the king's words had reached him. He shrugged and blinked quickly as he again reached unsteadily for the flask of wine. "Well spoken, oh eloquent king; though what a barbarian such as you should know of our poets I really cannot understand." His words slurred together, making his previously slight accent more pronounced and nearly indecipherable.

"So, oh noble Tarkaan," said King Edmund quietly, his words sounding more measured and his voice more controlled than ever in contrast to the Tarkaan's drunkenness. "Are we to be friends?"

"Certainly!" the other man slurred, reaching the stage of inebriation at which he was disposed to be merry. "For as long as my goblet is full, and the wine is good."

The innkeeper was duly summoned, and the flask refilled, much to Peridan's disgust, and he suspected to the King's as well, though there was no sign of it in his expression.

"Tell me, friend, why my inquiries about the Lone Islands have been met with fear and a lack of response?"

Obridesh set his goblet down, nearly missing the edge of the table and focused blearily on the King's face. "So, there is something the great spymaster of Narnia does not know and cannot discern; that is a pretty jest!"

Again, it was only King Edmund's restraining arm on his wrist that kept Peridan from rising to the Calormene's bait. He undoubtedly wanted a fight and Peridan had to admit it was better not to give him one, still it made his blood boil to be unable to answer the man's rudeness in kind.

King Edmund surreptitiously slid the flask of wine just out of reach and leaned back in his chair again, studying the Calormen with enviable detachment. "I will pardon your rudeness, Obridesh, if you will answer my question."

The Calormen reached for the flask, found it missing, and glared accusingly at the King. "You're a fool," he spat contemptuously. "You and the pack of barbarian dogs you call family. Your people stand poised to rebel and you notice nothing. Your inquiries, oh king, go unanswered, lest word reach Narnia that even now a fleet of our warships have set sail for Narrowhaven."

"So, it is to be a military coupe and not merely a political one? Would the Tisroc, I do not care how long he lives, so long as it is far from me, really risk breaking our treaty?" Peridan shuddered at the thought of war with Calormen, but the king's voice remained as calm as it had ever been and his gaze was steady as he fixed it on the Tarkaan's face.

"A treaty is only as strong as the country that backs it," the Tarkaan said, gazing mournfully at the wine flask. "Narnia has grown weak, stretched thin by fighting in the North, the High King's long absences, and Queen Susan's growing preoccupation with her flattering visitors. The Lone Islands have grown discontent and are ripe for the taking."

King Edmund passed him the flask with a sigh. "And this fleet? It puts in at Narrowhaven to provide military support for the Council's overthrowal of the governor?"

"Your wisdom does…you credit." His words were halting as he finished his latest goblet of wine and his swarthy face flushed a dark red. He reached for the flask again, missed and sent his empty goblet spinning to the floor. A moment later his head collided with the table, producing a dull thud as he slumped forward, insensible.

W **ell then! Do let me know what you thought, of Obridesh and Peridan especially :-)**

 **To answer my guest reviewers...never fear! Peter and Edmund WILL most definitely be reuniting at some point well before this story draws to an end...I'm just going to have a bit of fun first. *Evil laugh-oh, wait, spoilers! Erhmm...too much caffeine? Is that a valid excuse?**

 **Leave me a review if you are at all enjoying this story :-)**

 **Also, there's a new poll on my profile and your feedback would be greatly appreciated!**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	3. To The Glistening Eastern Sea

**Here is the next chapter-it took a REALLY long time to write, so hopefully it is worth it :-)**

 **I still do not own Narnia and make no monetary profit by writing this story.**

 _10_ _th_ _, Greenroof, 1012-Fifthday_

 _Insofar as Gale, King of Narnia-being descended from the noble line of Frank-is hailed as Emperor of these Islands, he shall be awarded all honours and authorities incumbent upon him. Furthermore, a Council shall be established for the governance of these lands in accordance with his will, and with the will of Aslan, Son of the Emperor Over The Sea and High King Over All Kings of Narnia. The Council shall be chosen in accordance with the precepts of our land, and in respect to those of noble and elevated status-_

The sunlight streaming through the circular porthole of her cabin beckoned imploringly to Lucy, and her gaze drifted away from the dusty pages she had been studying to fix on the glimmer of azure water that was just visible outside. The volume on the table before her was the one remaining Narnian copy of "The Charter of Kings", the original basis for Narnia's authority over the Lone Islands. It made for very dull reading, and she could not keep her mind from wandering to more pleasant thoughts of salt spray, merfolk, and golden sunlight.

There were few things Lucy loved more than sailing, and ordinarily she would have been perched high in the rigging, watching the sailors on the deck below, and delighting in the sensation of freedom. As it was, she had determined before leaving Cair Paravel that she would learn as much about the laws and politics of the Lone Islands as possible; three days later she seemed to have gained no better understanding. Her study of "The Charter of Kings" had so far resulted in nothing more than an aching head and a morose longing for fresh air.

She sighed heavily, pushed the book away to join the disordered jumble that constituted the rest of Cair Paravel's books on the Lone Islands, and threw another longing look out at the sparkling sea.

 _Surely a few minutes above decks won't do any harm. After all, I have been shut up with these books for nearly three days!_ Three days was a terribly long time for Lucy to be shut up anywhere, especially on a ship, and she felt that if she spent another moment so confined she was likely to cry.

 _If only Edmund were here!_ she lamented, not for the first time. _He would have had these books read in half the time it is taking me, and would have gotten much more out of them._

Her brother's absence served only to remind her of her duty, and she stubbornly turned her back on the window and pulled the book onto her lap. _It isn't so very dull, perhaps if I simply try a bit harder._

 _The Council shall be comprised of one member from each of the noble families of Doorn, and one member from each of the noble families of Avra, and one member of each of the Merchant Guilds, and one member from each of the great seafaring families. These shall meet once every-_ The words began to run together into an endless, meaningless stream of cramped characters and seemingly indecipherable words. The book, in fact, _was_ so very dull.

"Oh, bother!" she exclaimed, feeling uncharacteristically cross, and slammed the decrepit covers closed. She may as well have been reading a foreign language for all the sense the closely written words were making to her just then. The call of the sea refused to be denied any longer; duty or no she had to get out of the cabin, had to feel the wind in her hair, and smell the sweet sea air.

 _It's simply no use reading if I haven't the faintest idea of_ what _I'm reading,_ she thought, and with that convincing argument firmly in mind she abandoned all thoughts of politics.

The smooth deck planks were warm beneath her bare feet as she pushed the door to her cabin closed behind her and drew in a great lungful of sweet, warm air. _Freedom,_ she thought, letting the gentle sea breeze ruffle through her hair. Susan would not have approved of her having left her shoes behind, nor of the fact that she had so far failed to comb her hair since leaving Cair Paravel. Luckily for the freedom of both her hair and feet, Susan was not currently present.

"A good afternoon to ye, your majesty!" the captain called to her cheerily from his place at the helm.

She smiled and made her way across the gently rocking deck to join him. "Good afternoon, Captain Rhegus; how fares the sea today?"

The captain was a wiry, weathered looking sailor with a merry face and brilliant red hair-though white was beginning to show at his temples. Lucy felt her smile widen as she remembered her first voyage with him-she had been terribly afraid of him then, though she never would have admitted that to Peter.

"She's in a fine temper, your majesty," Rhegus answered, adjusting the wheel minutely to keep the _Splendor Hyaline_ firmly on course. "Much like ye, your majesty." He winked, still roguish despite his age, and Lucy couldn't help giggling. Rhegus was rarely serious, and his quick mirth and easy manners never failed to make Lucy feel more at ease herself.

"I'm in a much better temper for having the wind against my face and the sun on my back," she agreed, smiling as she looked over the expanse of gleaming water. "Where are we, Captain?"

"About 'alf a day's sail from Doorn, by my reckonin'. 'Course, I could be wrong." He winked again, and Lucy laughed obligingly at the joke, despite the sinking feeling that came from knowing how close they were to journey's end.

Rhegus seemed to sense her consternation and he frowned, leaning lightly against the wheel and staring down at her curiously.

"Why, Queen Lucy, I must say, I've never seen ye lookin' quite so down. What ails ye, lass?" Susan would not have thought his form of address proper enough, but at that moment Lucy could have hugged him for speaking to her with such frankness.

"It's just-" she bit her lip, stopping the words before they could come tumbling out; Edmund had warned her not to speak of her mission to anyone. _But really!_ She thought desperately. _If I don't confide in someone I shall go mad!_ "You're from Narrowhaven, aren't you?"

She thought his expression hardened for a moment as he turned away, but it could have been a trick of the light-the sun had just passed behind a cloud and the ship was briefly in the shadow it cast.

"Yes," he said slowly. "There was a time I was proud to call m'self a sailor of Doorn." He smiled suddenly, the distant look in his eyes fading as he turned back to face her. "But, I'm a true Narnian now, and prouder of that than I've been of aught else in my life."

Lucy nodded, glad to hear him say it. Once she had overcome her fear, and gained a few inches of height, Captain Rhegus had become a trusted friend to her. It would have saddened her to find he regretted leaving his home for a life in Narnia.

"What made you leave Narrowhaven?" she asked, curiosity sending her questions down an altogether different path than she had intended. _That's always the trouble with me,_ she reflected, somewhat ruefully. _It's terribly lucky I'm not a cat._ At least, that was what Susan always said.

"If ye'll pardon my sayin' it," he glanced around furtively and leaned conspiratorially closer to her. "I got into a bit of a scrap with a fellow there, Calormen chap 'e was, and a right devil with a blade too. Would 'ave gutted me like a fish if I'd stayed."

There was a dancing gleam in his flint coloured eyes and Lucy knew he couldn't be serious. She gave him the same look that usually made her siblings grumble with annoyance before giving in to her requests.

"Really Captain," she said faking sternness. "Saying such things before a lady." But she could not be serious for long, and she laughed. "But, in all honesty, why did you leave?" she persisted a moment later.

Rhegus grinned sheepishly. "If ye really must know, your majesty, there," he paused to clear his throat and run a calloused hand across his face. "Well, ye see," he began again, his sun darkened skin suddenly redder than his hair must have been in his youth. "There was a girl."

Lucy sobered immediately, wondering if she had touched on a painful subject, but Rhegus' grin did not waver. "I was a bit of a fool, your majesty, as young sailors often are. 'er father didn't approve, ye see, and 'e would 'ave killed me, if I 'adn't been too clever for 'im." He fell silent for a moment, sharp eyes fixed on the distant horizon. "Never saw 'er again," he said quietly, his expression suddenly sad.

"Oh dear!" Impulsively Lucy reached out to grasp his hand. "I'm most dreadfully sorry, Captain!" _Why must my questions always get away from me?_

He shook himself, seeming to return to the present, and his smile was back as quickly as if it had never vanished. "Don't trouble yourself on my account, Queen Lucy," he said cheerfully. "That was a very long time ago."

Still, she couldn't quite help feeling wretched for reminding him. It seemed far too cruel to return to her original plan of questioning him, and for a moment she stared at the decking beneath her feet and wondered what she was supposed to do now. _I always make such a dreadful mess of things._

"Ye were goin' to ask me something further, were ye not?" Rhegus looked not at all troubled, and that made her feel somewhat better.

"Yes, I-well, it's about why we are sailing to Narrowhaven so hastily. The Council means to overthrow Governor Athelstan, and Ed-King Edmund, that is-thinks that the people must be discontented, and-oh dear-do they hate us so very much?" And there it was, the very reason she felt such trepidation about traveling to Narrowhaven alone, only, she really hadn't meant to say it quite like that.

Rhegus blinked, opened his mouth to speak, then promptly closed it again and whistled very softly through his teeth. "Well now," he said finally, shaking his head. "Firstly, if ye'll not think me impertinent?" Lucy shook her head miserably. "Well then, firstly, I 'ave yet to meet a spirit alive capable of 'ating ye, Queen Lucy."

Lucy felt her face flush in embarrassment. _I don't understand why,_ she thought, scuffing her bare toes against the well-scrubbed wood of the deck. _There's nothing all that special about me._

"And secondly," continued Rhegus, still gravely. "As soon as the people see ye-well I'll be 'anged if they don't see the Council for the pack of braying jackasses they really are. Beggin' your pardon, o' course, your majesty."

She did not think it would have been entirely proper to tell tales about her brothers, so she refrained from informing him she often heard much worse language at the breakfast table. Instead, she examined his statement intently, noting what he had failed to say just as carefully as what he had said. _I think that's what Edmund would do._

"But, the people are discontent, aren't they? Oh bother! Captain, please, be honest-don't try to spare my feelings." She found that her hands were shaking and pressed them against her sides in an attempt to hide that fact. _This simply won't do!_

"Your majesty, it isn't my place to say." Rhegus shifted uneasily and glared at the dark smudge of land just visible on the horizon.

"Please?" Lucy could nearly hear Susan's voice gently scolding her for pleading with someone who was technically under her command, but she also acknowledged that she had never been comfortable with being in charge. Her expression must have been sufficiently beseeching, and Rhegus sighed, shaking his head in defeat.

"Very well, Queen Lucy; to answer your question-yes, I believe they are. But," he held up a hand, forestalling her next cascade of words. "They 'ave less right to be than they think. Ye, and your royal siblings, ye are the ones who drove away the Witch and 'er Winter, and for that they should be thankin' ye, not judgin' ye."

 _But it wasn't us at all,_ Lucy insisted silently. _It was Aslan's doing from the very start._ She had learned, over the years, that people generally smiled indulgently when faced with that protest and dismissed it far more summarily than they ought.

"Why do they judge us?" Her curiosity drove away the brief flash of annoyance quickly enough. "Are our laws unjust, or have we mistreated them in any way?"

"No…not as such." But he did not sound particularly certain. He sighed, and ran a hand through his grizzled hair, making it stand on end and appear very wild indeed. "With your majesty's leave I will speak plainly to ye."

"I certainly wish you would," Lucy assured him, though-she wasn't entirely sure she was ready to hear the full truth. _Nothing for it; Peter trusted me to get to the bottom of this, and he certainly wouldn't shy from hearing something unpleasant._

"The people," he paused, fumbled in his pockets for his pipe and clamped the stem firmly between his teeth, but refrained from lighting it in her presence. "The people are restless, Queen Lucy. They seem to think, which I believe they 'ave no right to, that ye and yours 'ave ignored 'em these twelve years."

 _Have we?_ Lucy wondered desperately, trying to think of any interaction she remembered between the court of Cair Paravel and the Lone Islands. There had been a state visit from Governor Athelstan the year before and a few of the Council members had accompanied him. A Doornish nobleman had come courting the year before that, and she suspected that Peter and Edmund of throwing diplomacy to the winds after he had been found skulking outside Susan's chambers. Well, probably just Peter, she supposed Edmund would likely have been less obvious in his ire.

Before that- _Oh, dear!_ -Peter, of course, had visited the Lone Islands in the first year of their reign, to re-establish communications between them and the throne of Narnia. But, other than that, she could not recall a time when either she, or any of her family, had actually visited the Islands.

"We have ignored them, haven't we?" She studied the sailor's lined face, wishing fervently that she possessed Edmund's skill for understanding people simply by examining their expressions.

Rhegus cleared his throat and clamped his teeth more firmly around the pipe, very carefully not meeting her gaze. "That really isn't my place to say, your majesty. But, if I was a bettin' man-which I thank Aslan I'm not-I would bet every bit of coin I 'ave that the Council's been tellin' the people you are ready to 'and the Islands over to the Calormenes anyway. They'll be sayin' the Calormenes'll protect 'em better, and that the 'igh King 'ad no right to the Islands in the first place-seein' as 'e isn't from King Frank's line at all."

 _So much for it not being at all political,_ Lucy thought, allowing herself a moment to acknowledge her ever growing fear at what she might actually find in Narrowhaven. _Was Edmund wrong about their motivations?_ Surely he couldn't have been, after all, he knew far more about it than she did. Still, Lucy was beginning to feel that the situation had less to do with greed, as Edmund had assured her, and more to do with fear.

 _We are supposed to protect the Islands, but what have we actually done for them? We've become nothing more than figureheads-worse than useless. Oh Aslan! How could we let this happen?_ Rhegus was watching her with ill-concealed concern and Lucy forced a smile, though she felt it would not have been very convincing.

"Are ye quite well, your majesty? If ye'll pardon me, your lookin' a mite peaky," he frowned and put the still unlit pipe back in his pocket. "Ere, why don't ye sit down a spell? I've never known ye to be sickly on sea."

Lucy shook her head and forced her smile to become more genuine-it was a much for her own benefit as it was to reassure her Captain. "I'm quite well," she insisted, steadying her breathing with difficulty-she had been dangerously close to panicking-and flashing him a brilliant smile. "Although, I think it's high time for me to go back below, it seems I have quite a lot of reading to do."

Rhegus nodded slowly, looking quite skeptical of her suddenly bright mood, and Lucy turned back towards her cabin. The sun did not seem quite as bright as it had a few moments ago, and she sighed, miserably. _Why did I ever agree to come? I can't do this; Peter never should have trusted me to._

She was just about to lay her hand on the latch of her cabin door when a swallow dove gracefully from the rigging with a loud cry.

"A sail!" the Bird called, cheeping frantically as it circled around Captain Rhegus' head, before settling on the wheel with an incredible display of balance. "A sail!"

In a flash, Lucy had forgotten her consternation over the Lone Islands, the pile of books that awaited her, and the urgency of her mission. "Where?" she asked, dashing back to Rhegus' side. "Where, good cousin?"

"To the East," the Swallow fluttered her wings and tilted her head in the direction of the distant speck of white. "There's something wrong, your majesty, their wings look broken!"

Rhegus muttered a phrase Lucy was certain she was not meant to hear-though she had still heard worse at breakfast-and raised his seaman's glass. A moment later he handed it to her with a frown. She peered through it, found the ship easily enough, and gasped.

Smoke was rising from the deck, the sail hung in tatters, and the whole ship seemed to list to one side. She saw what the Swallow meant about its wings being broken.

"That's a Galman merchant vessel, isn't it?" she asked, squinting at the ragged flag fluttering from the mast.

"Aye," said Rhegus, more grimly than she had ever heard him speak as he took the glass back from her. "Ye've got a good eye, your majesty. Pirates' work, no doubt-I've 'eard talk of pirates in these waters o' late. Thought it was fanciful nonsense; seems I was mistaken."

"We have to help them," Lucy said simply, thinking it was the most obvious thing in the world. It surprised her very much then, when Rhegus cleared his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable, and did not immediately change course. "Captain?"

"Beggin' your pardon, Queen Lucy, but my orders are to get ye to Narrowhaven without delay. The 'igh King-"

"Oh, bother the High King!" she snapped, in a tone that would have made Susan sigh in despair at her ever learning to be a proper lady. "My duty is to my people; turn this ship about and help them!"

Still Rhegus hesitated, and the Swallow who had sighted the sail fluttered her wings nervously and abandoned her perch on the wheel in favour of landing on Lucy's shoulder. Lucy found her light weight and the steady flutter of the Creature's heart next to her ear extremely comforting and whispered a quiet word of thanks for the Swallow's unspoken declaration of loyalty. The Narnians would stand by their queen's orders.

Rhegus shook his head and whistled between his teeth again. "Your majesty, please, Galma is not under Narnia's protection-I like 'em well enough, but the Galmans 'ave their own King to protect 'em. My orders are to protect ye."

"And you are my Captain-as such you are bound to follow _my_ orders." _Don't think about how much you hate giving orders; don't think how this man is your friend,_ she reminded herself sternly. Peter would not hesitate. _Shoulders back, chin up, don't look down-thank you, Susan._ "As your queen," she said, far more haughtily than she had ever spoken before, "I order you to turn this ship about and aid the Galmans."

Rhegus threw up his hands in defeat. "Alright, Queen Lucy, 'ave it your way. There's naught else I can do but obey, but I want ye below decks and your guards above."

"Begging _your_ pardon, Captain,"-She cringed at the unnatural coldness in her own voice-"But you take orders from me, not the other way around. I'll be above decks-where I belong."

Rhegus sighed, then grinned at her to show he had not taken offense at her tone. "Alright, your majesty, it's not my place to gainsay ye. Only, please stay near your guards, won't ye? We don't know if this ship is all it seems, and the 'igh King would 'ave my 'ead if anythin' were to 'appen to ye."

Lucy nodded, and Rhegus turned away to call a volley of ear shattering orders to his men. A moment later the troupe of guards Peter had sent with her snapped to attention, springing to her side from the various places they had been lounging about the deck.

The ship listed to the side for a moment as Rhegus spun the wheel sharply, turning Eastward, towards the Galman vessel. Lucy gripped the railing to keep her hands from shaking. Despite her orders, and her confidence that it was her duty to help anyone in trouble, she could not help the thrill of fear that ran through her at the mention of pirates.

When she had been a few years younger, and far more gullible, Edmund had been rather fond of telling her wild stories of pirates. She knew now that tales of ghostly ships that disappeared and reappeared without warning were no doubt nonsense, but they had given her nightmares for years. Of course, once Susan discovered the cause for her difficulties sleeping she had scolded Edmund soundly, and he had apologized beautifully. Still, Lucy regarded pirates with a special sense of dread.

"Stay close, your majesty," the Faun in charge of her guards said hurriedly, between calling out orders to the rest of the troupe. "We don't know if the pirates have gone yet."

Lucy looked about quickly; she didn't see anywhere another ship could be hiding, but her mind returned irrepressibly to Edmund's old stories.

" _Right out of the fog,"_ he had told her, voice pitched so low as to be nearly inaudible. _"Just when you think you're safe, and you've made it past the ship, it comes out of the fog and crashes into you!"_ She seemed to remember shrieking at that point in the tale, but just then she didn't have time to properly remember anything, for the _Splendor Hyaline_ had nearly reached the other vessel.

The merchant vessel, due to its course and slower speed was now slightly behind them, and Rhegus quickly turned the ship so that the broadside of it was slanted in front of the other ship's prow. There was very little else he could have done under such circumstances, and in another moment the sailors would have had ropes out, and been calling across the few yards of water that still separated the two ships. At least, everyone later thought that was what _would_ have happened.

What did happen, however, was quite different, and Lucy did not understand it very well at all. All she could ever tell was that, just as the _Hyaline_ drew even with it, the merchant vessel turned suddenly-flashing through the water with all its oars driving forward-and struck the _Splendor Hyaline_ full across the side of her hull.

Someone screamed, Lucy thought it must have been her, and she found herself thrown to the deck as the railing she had been clutching a moment before splintered with the force of the blow. She looked up, as if in a dream, and saw Captain Rhegus clinging to the wheel, hair blazing in the sunlight, and teeth set in a snarl of effort as he fought to turn the ship.

She staggered to her feet, shook her head to clear it, and blinked against the sudden haze of smoke. The merchant vessel was in fact, burning-or rather, the lifeboats on the deck were burning, and the acrid haze caught in her throat and made her cough.

The _Hyaline_ was in a state of utter confusion. Sailors ran to and fro on the deck, hacking away burning and splintered debris and throwing cargo overboard in the hopes of gaining more speed, but Lucy saw at once that it was useless. Rhegus, for all his skill had been unable to turn the ship back towards open sea, and the other vessel had made good use of its oars, drawing back in preparation to strike again.

Lucy looked desperately from Rhegus' strained and hopeless face, to the pale, terrified faces of her guards, and knew they were lost. _Aslan! Help us! What am I to do?_

 _Have courage._

"How?" she called aloud, voice hoarse and desperate. Her guards turned to stare at her, frightened and seeking reassurance, but she had none to give them. "How can I?" But Aslan spoke no more, and Lucy felt her knees buckle under the weight of her terror.

 _Peter!_ she thought desperately. _Peter can send help!_ It scarcely mattered in that moment that any help Peter could send would be days in coming, it was a thread of hope, and it was all she had. She scanned the sky frantically for the darting speck that would indicate the Swallow's presence, and silently scolded herself for not learning the Bird's name. _Aslan, please!_

Almost in the next heartbeat the answer came in a darting flash of grey and white as the blessed bird once more dropped down to land on her shoulder-as solid and calm as Lucy could have wished.

"Good cousin, fly!" she choked, coughing as the smoke filled her lungs. "To Cair…tell Peter to send ships! Fly, dear friend! Fly!" The Swallow trilled softly, brushed her wing against Lucy's cheek in a silent farewell, and flew.

A moment later Lucy found that she too was flying. The ship had struck them again-before Lucy quite knew what was happening the deck was tilting alarmingly and she found herself sliding back towards the already weakened railing. She slammed against the already weakened barrier, the force of the impact driving the breath from her lungs, before the wood splintered the rest of the way, and she was tumbling down towards the tangle of debris and discarded cargo in the sea. She heard Captain Rhegus shout, had a brief moment to realise she would have been far safer below decks as he had wished her to be, before her head collided with something very solid and she knew no more.

Far above, circling the swaying mast, the little Swallow let out a keening shriek before turning to the Northwest and winging away, more swiftly than she had ever flown before in her life. But, even as she flew, she knew it would never be fast enough. The _Splendor Hyaline_ was lost, and her young queen had already sunk beneath the waves of the ocean that was her domain.

 **There's that! Put the pitchforks away-if you murder me you'll never find out what happens next! Please leave me a review and let me know what you think, especially of Rhegus, since he is my own creation :-) I would love to hear what you think of him as a character.**

 **Next up we have a chapter about Susan. It will be posted next week, so keep reading. Also, if you have a spare moment please vote on the poll that is located at the top of my profile page.**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	4. The Trials of Susan

**No Lucy this time, sorry, but there will be more about what happened to her soon, so keep reading! This chapter has lots of information which will be incredibly important later-to all the various storylines.**

 _7th, Greenroof, 1012-Second-day_

"Peter! You look awful, are you quite well?" Susan studied her elder brother's disheveled appearance, pale face, and distinctly cross expression from where she stood, leaning against the door frame of his private study. He really did look as if he were becoming ill and her current annoyance with him faded slightly, though not entirely. _Wonderful,_ she reflected, somewhat selfishly. _First Lucy goes gallivanting off to the Lone Islands, and now if Peter's ill that leaves me to deal with the retinue of fools downstairs on my own. And where in Aslan's name is Edmund?_

Peter scowled at her from his chair by the hearth. "Gracious as ever, Su. I'm quite well, thank you." He returned to scowling at the sooty hearth.

"Peter," she allowed her voice to take on a note of warning as she crossed the messy room gracefully to drop into the chair opposite him. "Avoidance is Edmund's tactic, not yours, and with good reason. By the way, have you seen Edmund this morning? He was supposed to be helping with the seating plan for tonight."

Peter stared at her blankly, but there was a quick flash of guilt in his eyes that she would have been blind not to notice. He was saved from answering, however, by the arrival of Brickle bearing a breakfast laden tray. The harried looking dwarf deposited it hastily on the low table and backed away, shooting Peter a nervous glance and bowing emphatically.

"Tea?" she asked, conversationally, momentarily forgetting her interrogative purpose in favour of her manners.

"Coffee; if there is any." He grinned sheepishly. "You know, I'm perfectly capable of coming down to breakfast. My shoulder is entirely better and my ankle nearly so-"

"Nonsense," Susan interrupted brusquely, passing him a cup of coffee and helping herself to tea. "If you were to fall and break your neck on the way to breakfast you would be unable to attend this dratted banquet tonight. Besides, you never answered my question; have you seen Edmund?"

"Not since yesterday," Peter offered meekly with the same flash of guilt.

Susan paused, hand poised in the midst of reaching for the little pitcher of cream, and raised her eyebrows. "No?" she asked conversationally. "But I suppose you know where he's run off to and are helping him hide from me and looming seating plans?"

"He hasn't run off," Peter protested as he sipped his coffee cautiously, grimaced, and immediately reached for the sugar. "And I'm not precisely certain of where he is. I'll help with the seating plan if you're so bothered about it."

He was definitely avoiding telling her something very important, and Susan huffed in annoyance. _He doesn't know precisely where Edmund is but is entirely unconcerned?_ Historically that could be taken to mean Edmund had vanished on one of his more underhanded missions with Peter's knowledge, if not consent.

It never ceased to frustrate Susan that her younger brother failed to see the necessity of bidding her farewell. When she had confronted him about that very circumstance some years previously, he had merely shrugged and assured her that his tendency to slip away unannounced did not spring from a lack of care. Lucy had later offered a characteristically insightful statement on the matter, reminding her that Edmund always refused to bid anyone a proper farewell and confiding what she had surmised herself.

" _I really do think he refuses to say goodbye on the grounds that doing so allows for the possibility of his not returning."_ At the time Susan had nearly scoffed at the idea-after all, it had only been the third year of their reign and understanding Edmund had still seemed a nearly insurmountable task to her. Now she was reluctantly forced to admit Lucy had likely been right.

"I'm sure he'll have a grand time," Peter was saying, and Susan realised wearily that she had entirely missed the first part of his statement.

"Have a grand time where?" She was reluctant to admit her lapse in attention, knowing it would prompt the worried frown that was now directed at her, courtesy of her elder brother.

"Are you all right, Su?" The question seemed rather ridiculous, especially given that Peter himself was looking unusually drawn, and she quite correctly suspected he had not slept the previous night.

"Entertaining suitors is rather more difficult than you seem to comprehend, dear brother." She hoped her voice conveyed amusement rather than her steadily growing annoyance, but really, she was far too tired to be certain. _And how could he be expected to understand?_ she chided herself silently. Peter was not the type of vainly self-serving royal who spent his days pursuing hapless females from neighbouring countries, and would have sooner died than engaged in some of the more ludicrous behaviour displayed by Susan's more persistent suitors-past and present.

"I know, and I really ought to be more helpful." He hung his head, looking distinctly guilty as he stared down at the murky liquid (which by this point could barely be deemed coffee) in his cup. "Hang it all Susan, can't we just send this latest collection of popinjays packing and have done with it?" His infamous temper was obviously rising, brushing aside the milder display of brotherly guilt.

"No, we most certainly cannot," she replied brusquely, casting her mind back in search of their original topic. _Ah yes, Edmund._ "And don't change the subject. I do not appreciate being deliberately omitted from your plans, and would prefer to be consulted before you see fit to send both our brother and sister into danger."

"Ah, well," he swirled his coffee dubiously, refusing to meet her eyes. Susan sighed and tried to compose her expression into one which would appear less furious. She had seen her brother face charging Minotaurs and forty-foot giants with less display of nervousness than her scowls were met with.

"Well?' she prompted when further speech was not forthcoming-she even managed a smile though Peter did not seem to see it.

"You were busy," he offered miserably.

 _Busy?_ Well, she supposed it was true. Entertaining three separate suitors and their retinues while attempting to keep anyone from being disemboweled was no easy task-especially without the added advantage her brothers usually provided by appearing, fully armed and indignant, at the slightest sign of trouble.

"And, while I may not fully understand the subtleties of preserving the lives and dignities-do they have dignities?-of your assorted guests, I can appreciate that it must be a very difficult task. I really didn't want to trouble you." He gave her a look which was a dangerously close approximation of Lucy's innocently pleading expression when asking forgiveness, and Susan had to smile at it.

"Still, you might have told me." She wasn't entirely willing to let Peter off so easily, especially when he hadn't actually told her anything. "Where did Edmund go and why the sudden trip to the Lone Islands for Lucy?"

He attempted to reach for a fifth-or was it sixth?-cube of sugar and Susan quickly snatched the little dish out of his reach. "That is a disgusting amount of sugar! You'll make yourself sick! Just drink your coffee, which you asked for and therefore have no right to complain about, and answer my questions."

He looked longingly at the sugar bowl, took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. "I still don't understand how Ed drinks this; it's disgusting!" He set the cup aside, still grimacing and met her eyes at last, flinching slightly as her expression darkened again.

"Simply put? The council of Narrowhaven is pushing for the Islands' secession and Lucy is there to ensure they don't succeed; her guards are there to apprehend the guilty parties." He scowled into the hearth again, fingers drumming against the arm of his chair. "Athelstan has been worried about something of this sort for quite some time, and I fear I've kept putting him off. The giants have been making things difficult enough and I was reluctant to formally acknowledge the threat of civil war. I've been a fool," he acknowledged calmly, still scowling.

Susan blinked, dumbfounded. "It's really as bad as all that?" _Have I truly been so distracted by my own troubles that I have missed something of such import?_

"Edmund fears it is a good deal worse, and I am regrettably inclined to agree with him. The council threatens civil war if they attempt to secede, but the people are a greater threat than a few overfed lords if they decide to back the movement. Ed's gone off to Narrowhaven as well as Lucy, via Calormen though, and not officially. It's no use putting down the council's plots without first determining the mood of the people themselves, and Edmund is the only one I trust to give an accurate accounting."

 _Calormen? Alone? Surely not after the Incident last time he was there._ Peter's eyebrows furrowed; he was obviously also thinking of the Incident that neither of them ever spoke of-the details of which they both fervently hoped Edmund remained unaware of. "You think Calormen is behind this somehow?" she asked quickly, trying to hide her worry.

Peter shrugged. "They are nearly always involved in political intrigue of some sort. We would be lax to not at least investigate. And, I didn't send him alone, Su; Peridan is with him. I know," he added quickly in response to her skeptical expression. "It is certainly not ideal, and I would have gone myself…" he shrugged ruefully, glared at his ankle, and ran a distracted hand through his hair. "Still," he added more confidently with a reassuring smile. "With luck, and Aslan's grace, no one from the Palace will even know he's there."

 _With luck; but when has luck ever sided with Edmund? Aslan, guard him I beg you, I have no desire to entrust my brother's life to luck._ There was nothing else for it but to trust his safety to Aslan and hope Peridan proved more capable than Susan had credited him with being.

She smiled to match Peter in forced confidence and stood to gather up the breakfast tray. "Well then," she said briskly, brushing away the more troublesome of her thoughts. "I suppose we will simply have to make do on our own for a few weeks. Perhaps you would be so kind as to fulfill your earlier offer of organizing the seating plan for tonight?"

Peter groaned, saluted her with his coffee cup before draining the tepid liquid in a long draught, and groaning again at the taste. "If I must, after all, a knight's word is his bond."

She smiled obligingly at his attempt to distract her from her worries and left the room somewhat hurriedly, shoving the breakfast tray at the nearest guard as she did so. As Susan darted down the stairs she was already formulating a plan she was certain neither of her brothers would approve of.

Sallowpad the Raven was perching in one of the oak trees that bordered the training yard, staring down on Orieus and a troupe of Centaurs who were drilling there with clever, beady eyes. As Susan approached, he glanced her way briefly before returning to his scrutiny of the soldiers, utterly unconcerned with both her presence and the manner in which he ought to greet her.

"Good morrow, Sallowpad," she called up to him, slightly breathless from the speed at which she had approached the training yard. Sallowpad ruffled his inky feathers and said nothing. Ravens were known to be proud and unsociable creatures and finding one at Cair Paravel would have been unusual had it not been for their strange, disconcerting loyalty to Edmund. It was upon this loyalty that Susan now found herself relying.

"I have a favour to beg of you, my good Raven," Susan continued, despite his earlier lack of response.

He turned his scrutinising gaze on her and tilted his head to one side. "A favour, your majesty? Not an order?"

Susan took a moment to collect her wits and rearrange her face into the carefully gracious expression she used on formal occasions. Such was her armour, and it was constructed as a mask to hide the true turmoil of her heart. She was a queen above all else, and it simply would not do for a queen to show uncertainty or fear before her subjects.

"I would rather it did not have to be an order," she answered calmly. "It is concerning King Edmund," she continued when he once more did not vocalise a response. "He has gone to Tashbaan, and from there means to sail for Narrowhaven."

The Raven croaked in a strange approximation of a laugh before ruffling his glossy black feathers and diving gracefully from the tree branch to land heavily on her shoulder.

"You wish me to go after him," he stated simply, taloned feet digging slightly into her skin.

"Yes, if you would be so kind." She really wished he hadn't chosen her shoulder as his perch; she could not see his reaction without turning her head noticeably, and it is scarcely ever pleasant to speak to something you cannot see.

"Kindness, oh queen, has nothing to do with it," he remarked cryptically, the talons tightening their hold. "Why do you wish this of me? Surely you do not believe your brother so incapable as to require constant supervision?"

Ravens were most definitely not known for either their manners or their tact, and Susan was beginning to wish Sallowpad had garnered at least a modicum of polite behaviour from his time at court. She was not a proponent of the fawning behaviour shown by Calormene courtiers, or even a few of King Lune's advisers, but the Raven's current manner was bordering on insubordinate.

"My good Sallowpad, I do not wish to send you after King Edmund due to any doubts I have about his capability, however, there are threats to his well being in Tashbaan which he has not been made aware of. I merely wish you to watch over him and guard him from those dangers he is uninformed about." Susan often found that the more frustrated and worried she became the more words she used to express her points.

Sallowpad released her shoulder and swooped to the ground where he once again tilted his head to one side and peered up at her. "An old fox does not easily place his foot within the snare," he croaked sagely. "So goes the proverb. Is not your royal brother an old fox?"

Susan nodded, conceding the point, though she rather wondered if Edmund would find it entirely flattering that he was being likened to an "old" fox. "Most assuredly, good cousin, however, even a fox may fall into a snare he has no way of detecting. There is a certain Tarkaan in Tashbaan, an adviser to the Tisroc, who wishes our King grave harm. It matters not why the High King, and myself, saw fit to keep this knowledge from King Edmund, but suffice it to say the inconvenience and danger posed should they meet would be great."

Sallowpad croaked out his harsh laughter a second time. "Forgive me, my queen," he managed to grate out at last, though he appeared not at all penitent. "But every Tarkaan, prince, courtier, and bastard noble in Tashbaan would wish his majesty's imminent and unpleasant demise. Would you have me guard him against all these?"

"Nay, Sallowpad, those he can guard against himself with Aslan's kind Grace." _I hope._ "The fellow I would have you regard with special care is one Obridesh Tarkaan, son of Obresh Tarkaan, and royal advisor to the Tisroc." She utterly refused to add the traditional qualifier "may he live forever", but also valued her dignity enough not to mock it by a deprecating remark of her own invention (as her brothers were wont to do).

"Obridesh?" The Raven repeated, mirth fading as he shuffled his wings in an avian shudder. "That one reeks of evil and decay. Your majesty, I will fly at once, and with a good will, if it is to protect my king from such a one as he."

"May your flight be swift, and Aslan's Grace go with you cousin," she said, raising her hand in the traditional gesture of blessing. "Use caution, my good Raven, lest you be seen by unfriendly eyes; show yourself only in the presence of Peridan and my royal brother."

The Raven croaked with an indignant intonation as he flared his wings in preparation for flight. "I am no nestling! I am better versed in stealth than you." And with that he was gone, winging upward on swift and silent wings. Susan watched him go with a feeling of growing dread she would only allow herself to acknowledge once Sallowpad had become a distant dot of ink on the horizon.

 _What manner of person can elicit such a reaction from a Raven of all creatures?_ Susan wondered, aghast. Certainly, Obridesh had seemed distasteful in the extreme and she had thought him dangerous, but evil? _I should feel reassured that he goes to Edmund's aid,_ she chided herself, but the Raven's words troubled her enough to allay any relief she might otherwise have felt.

* * *

Despite Peter's best efforts with the seating plan for the feast, and Susan's own most gracious behaviour, a fistfight very nearly erupted when Tarkaan Areesh, her Calormene suitor, was seated to her right and Duke Tirnan, her Telmarine suitor was seated to her left (by his own request Gale, the Galman lord was seated halfway down the table to her left and was happily engaging in conversation with Metelus, Edmund's old tutor). Neither had actually been seated next to her, Peter had seen to it that he sat immediately to her right, and (in Edmund's absence) Orieus occupied the space directly to her left. Nevertheless, Duke Tirnan seemed to believe the arrangements showed more favour towards Tarkaan Areesh's suit than his own.

Violence was only narrowly avoided when the Tarkaan's sister (a delicate creature who seemed to favour transparency in her clothing rather than practicality) screamed meaningfully and fainted dead away. Hostilities were interrupted by the necessity of the girl being carried back to her chambers while Areesh provided his most heartfelt-and blatantly counterfeit-display of dismay at his sister's sudden collapse.

Privately, Susan blamed the girl's lack of adequate clothing, for the night must have been quite chilly in comparison with the heat in Calormen, and her already excitable temperament for the Tarkeena's rapid decline in health. Peter barely managed to conceal his annoyed expression at such a display by vanishing behind his wine goblet, and Orieus remained stoically composed and dignified as always (though Susan thought she heard the faintest hint of a sigh emanating from between his impassive lips).

The Duke seemed to forget his desire to mar the Tarkaan's countenance when it became apparent that no further favour had been awarded the Calormen and he was now given the added disadvantage of his sister creating a spectacle. The Telmarine smiled icily at Susan over the rim of his goblet, and she had no choice but to return the expression with more warmth than she could muster the sincerity to back. _If only they could behave with decorum, rather than quarreling like schoolboys!_

She smiled in Peter's direction, hoping he would see through the façade of polite hostess to the annoyance she so carefully hid from her guests at their behaviour. Peter, however, was engaged in listening graciously to Areesh's somewhat petulant apologies-and in reaching for the wine flask. _Bother!_ She tried again to catch his eyes, and failing that, motioned quickly and discretely to the Birch Dryad who hovered solicitously near the High King's elbow.

The nymph dropped a quick curtsey and unobtrusively collected the half full flask before disappearing through a side door. Susan allowed herself a moment to feel relieved that her own foresight in arranging the signal had proved worthwhile. For all his chivalry Peter possessed the rather unfortunate habit of absentmindedly filling his goblet with whatever happened to be nearest him. If that happened to be one of the stronger varieties of Narnian wine, then he would quite probably- and had frequently done so before Susan devised a solution-end the night slumped face first in his pudding. That particular spectacle was one Susan could quite happily do without.

A few moments later the Dryad slipped back into the hall, carrying a silver coffee pot which she deposited in the space left by the wine flask. Peter nodded politely in response to the Tarkaan's latest groveling statement and distractedly refilled his goblet with strong, black coffee. Susan nearly felt sorry for him when a moment later he was obliged to retain a gracious expression while attempting not choke.

 _I really must find time to think Jala for being so helpful,_ Susan reminded simply would not have done for the Queen of Narnia to be observed interfering in her brother's affairs directly.

Once he seemed to have recovered sufficiently, Peter at last caught her eye and nodded in response to her silent plea for his assistance. He stood somewhat unsteadily (more due to his injured ankle than the wine), and raised his coffee filled goblet.

"Dear friends, Narnians, and esteemed guests," all noise died down immediately as every eye turned towards him. Even injured and bordering on drunk there was no one who could capture the attention of a room quite so quickly and completely (Susan stubbornly did not allow herself to feel jealous on that count). "We thank you for your delightful company, but on behalf of myself and my royal sister we must beg your indulgence and bid you all goodnight." The collective and nearly stifled groans quickly died out as he continued, "It would greatly please us, however, if you would avail yourselves of our hospitality for as long as is proper, for indeed, the night is still young."

A low cheer rose in response to these words as everyone in the hall rose to their feet, paws, or hooves in respect for their rulers as both Susan and Peter happily made good on their escape. When the gilded doors swung closed behind them Susan at last allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief. Peter glared at her, obviously still cross about the coffee.

"Was that really necessary, Su?" he demanded, keeping his voice low.

"Would you prefer a headache in the morning?" _I am far too tired for this._ "Please Peter, if you are disposed to be quarrelsome perhaps it can wait till morn?"

Peter nodded, immediately appearing abashed and kissed her on the cheek. "By that time I will have long since ceased to be cross," he admitted with a smile. "Sleep well Susan." She watched him limp in the direction of the library, so exhausted that she barely spared a moment to wonder why he was not going to his chambers instead, before turning her own dragging footsteps towards her bed.

It might have been hours or minutes later (she did not even remember reaching her rooms and falling asleep) when Susan found herself most rudely awakened by the sound of something, or rather, someone, falling through the window and onto the floor of her bedchamber. She bolted upright in bed, clutching the thin sheet around her throat and suddenly feeling very aware of just how revealing her light summer night dress actually was. Mind still muddled by sleep, she blinked blearily at the shadowy shape now looming before the window. It had not occurred to her that she ought to scream and her mind was not yet fully awake enough for her to be frightened, in fact, she felt rather more annoyance than anything else.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" she demanded of her enterprising visitor with as much hauteur as anyone can manage upon first waking.

A flint sparked and the candle next to her bed was lit before Tarkaan Areesh dropped lightly onto the foot of her bed to meet her eyes with an adoring gaze.

"At last, most fair and virtuous queen, we are alone."

Still less afraid than she felt she ought to be, Susan edged further away from him. Afraid or not she did not like the appraising look in his dark eyes. "How did you get in here?" She knew perfectly well how, but after all, it was impolite to make assumptions.

"Through the window, my desert flower. Your guards were most insistent not to let me pass." He regarded her petulantly, as if some offense had been given to _his_ honour and Susan was seized by the absurd desire to laugh.

"Then you would be wise to leave in the same manner, my lord. I bid you goodnight." _I really must start stationing gryphons or eagles outside my window when suitors come calling._ The situation she currently found herself in was not as uncommon as might have been wished and perhaps it was that which accounted for her lack of fear.

"Your majesty is most gracious and lovely. Hath not one of the poets said "a cautious woman is gift from the gods"? But, my most gentle lady, you need have no fear your brother will discover us. Your most royal and fearful king is otherwise engaged himself and cannot harm you for your indiscretion." He laughed, rather unpleasantly and shifted until he was sitting halfway up the bed, still staring at her with an expression that was half adoration and half cold appraisal.

"It is not I you should concern yourself for," she replied icily, wishing that she slept with a dagger close at hand as Lucy did.

He blinked, looking bewildered for a moment, before deciding to blatantly misunderstand her meaning and leaning forward as if to kiss her. Susan did the only thing she reasonably could have done in such a situation and slashed him across the face with the nails of her right hand. The Tarkaan howled and jerked back, clutching his bleeding cheek with an expression more wounded than his face.

"Fair queen-" he began to protest, but Susan was quite through with his antics.

"Get out-through the window if you wish to retain some semblance of honour, through the door if you feel greater haste is desirable." She fixed him with a look she hoped was sufficiently venomous and found, much to her relief, that it was.

The Tarkaan slipped off the bed with a muttered oath and slunk, skulking to the door. Once he was outside she heard the muffled challenge from her guards and then the clatter of hooves as the Centaur on duty escorted her would be lover back to his own chambers.

At last she allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief as she stood and pulled on her dressing gown over her night dress. The Tarkaan had claimed Peter to be 'otherwise engaged'; well, that was all he knew.

 _Some men know how to behave as befits a knight,_ Susan reflected smugly as she slipped past her guards with a reassuring nod. She was quite certain whatever the Tarkaan had assumed was ridiculously incorrect and was not disappointed when, upon entering the corridor where Peter's rooms were located she heard the loud crash of a heavy door being opened with nearly enough force to tear it from its hinges. Susan rounded the corner just in time to see Peter, looking thoroughly put out and more than a little disheveled, emerge from the room holding Tarkaan Areesh's furious sister firmly by the arm. Once outside the door he released her with a look of disgust, glared meaningfully at his guards, and disappeared back through the door.

"And stay out!" She heard him demand emphatically as the door swung shut after him.

The Tarkeena, whose name Susan found she could not presently recall, glared defiantly at Trebonius, the satyr captain who graciously offered to escort her back to her chambers, and stormed away, wrapping her flimsy and ineffective shawl more firmly around her shoulders.

Susan waited until she was out of sight before allowing her carefully repressed laughter to escape. The Tarkeena (who very clearly thought herself more than capable of distracting Narnia's High King) had failed to realise one, monumental fact. Above all else Peter was a knight, a gentleman, and entirely honourable.

Trebonius seemed to share her amusement and his lips twitched as she brushed past him to rap lightly on the very solidly bolted door.

"Trebonius! Kindly escort the Tarkeena back to her rooms! And, of your courtesy, find her something more suitable to wear!" Though muffled by the solid oak Peter's voice had lost none of its righteous indignation.

Susan allowed herself one final chuckle before forcing her face into a more composed expression and knocking again.

"I said, STAY OUT!" The door was pulled open quite unexpectedly and Susan, who had been half leaning against the frame, nearly lost her balance. Peter glowered ferociously for a moment before he blinked, recognised her, and retreated with an annoyed huff.

"Are all ladies barred from your rooms, High King, or might your sister be permitted entrance?" she asked sweetly.

Peter, appearing slightly embarrassed, shrugged and closed the door after her. "Sorry about that Susan. I expect you saw what happened?"

"Saw, and heard," she agreed as she sank wearily onto the foot of his bed, amusement forgotten as her exhaustion and annoyance returned. "In fact, I would surmise the entire castle heard, or will have done by morning."

Peter ran a hand through his already disheveled hair and threw himself down on the bed with an annoyed groan. "I found her here when I came up from the library a few minutes ago, apparently she slipped in after fainting at the banquet. What an infernal nuisance!"

Susan felt her lips twitch in a smile at his petulant tone. "You know, Peter, I can think of a good many other young men who would find such acts flattering and welcome, rather than annoying."

He opened one eye to glare at her before his frown became one of worry. "And you? If you saw what happened, then you were already out of bed before I started shouting. You haven't been in the kitchens pestering Cook again have you?" His expression became somewhat desperate. "Last time you interfered with how she runs her kitchen the tea was cold, and we had nothing but vegetables for a week!"

"You're worse than Edmund when it comes to complaining about food," she scolded, happy to delay what she knew was going to be a very explosive display of temper for as long as possible. "I was already out of bed," she said slowly, "because the Tarkeena's brother saw fit to climb through my window with the intention of tendering his courtship in a more private setting."

 **Hmm...I doubt Peter will be happy to read that! Special thanks to my beta reader, PaintingMusic14, for once again making this presentable.**

 **Also, I realised I've been terrible about responding to guest reviews-really sorry about that!**

 **YAS girlll: Thank you! I hope you are still enjoying this story :-)**

 **Narnia Girl: Peter and Edmund stories are my favourite to write, and read :-) I will attempt to keep updating early or on time-it is very nice to be appreciated :-D**

 **Aslan's Daughter: Here's your update! Glad you are enjoying so far :-)**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	5. Suitors, Giants, and Vintners

**Hope everyone is having a lovely holiday season! Also, thank you for the lovely reviews-it is always wonderful to hear what you think!**

 **NarniaGirl: Oh good! I'm so glad you are enjoying this! And don't worry, there will be plenty of** **Peter and Edmund angst/suspense/fluff coming soon, do keep reading ;-). Also, thank you for mentioning my cover art! I'm glad I did a good job with it!**

 **Special thanks to my beta reader, PaintingMusic14 for her help with this chapter. I hope everyone enjoys and please do leave a review :-)**

 _8_ _th_ _. Greenroof, 1012—Third-day_

For a moment there was utter silence; Peter found himself strangely unable to move and was distantly aware that he was holding his breath in an attempt to curb his temper. A minute or more must have passed before he forced himself to sit up, moving stiffly with the effort of not immediately charging from the room in search of the unfortunate Tarkaan. He drew in a deep breath at last, feeling somewhat dizzy from his previous lack of air, and shook his head.

"What did you say?" He heard himself ask quietly, in the vain hope that he had simply misheard Susan's last statement. _Surely she cannot have said what I thought._ Suitors had often skulked _near_ her rooms, but to his knowledge none had been so presumptuous as Susan reported the Tarkaan to be.

His sister shifted away from him slightly in an automatic response to the icy quality of his tone—despite the fact that she must have known his ire was not directed at her.

"Tarkaan Areesh," she said slowly, sounding admirably calm, "climbed through my window. He suggested his courtship might be more agreeable to me in private, at which point I cut him across the face with my nails and threw him out—through the door and not the window."

She seemed to think this particular distinction was necessary, and under different circumstances Peter might have laughed at her logical recounting of events. As it was, he felt his brain was rather too slow to comprehend what she was saying, and he stared at her for another long moment—still working out the full weight behind her quiet words.

"GUARDS!" he bellowed when he had at last reached the inevitable conclusion—he saw Susan wince at the volume of his shout, but that hardly mattered in his current frame of mind. _I would kill the bastard myself, if it weren't presently too inconvenient to do so._ "TREBONIUS!"

The door flew open and Trebonius charged in, axe in hand, obviously prepared to face some persistent assassin—and it would not have been the first time he was required to do so. When he saw no immediate danger he paused, blinked, and lowered the axe slowly, looking slightly embarrassed.

"Your majesty?" The satyr's hooves skittered across the floor when Peter turned the full force of his glare on him, and Peter bit back a cutting remark about the captain's nervous temperament. Trebonius had always been remarkably skittish, but his immoveable loyalty was enough to make up for his other failings.

"Peter—" Susan began, obviously less intimidated by his show of temper than the hapless captain was, but even she was silenced when Peter held up a shaking hand to forestall her protests.

 _No more. There is a line that ought never to be crossed, and our Calormene_ friends _have leapt over it with impunity._ He was surprised by how calm and ordered his thoughts seemed; there was nothing either calm or ordered about the rush of blood pulsing through his veins in a furious tide, or in the haze that obscured his vision.

"Trebonius, kindly escort both the Tarkaan and Tarkheena from Cair Paravel and back to their ship immediately. They are to leave Narnia tonight, and will return only under risk of our extreme displeasure." _No more!_ he thought again, very decisively. Suitors were infuriating, the Calormene were nearly always plotting something distressing, and when both were combined Peter found it was quite beyond his tolerance.

"Peter! You can't!" It seemed Susan had found her voice, and she caught his arm pleadingly.

 _Can't? Dare she say there is something the High King of Narnia cannot do in protection of his country and family?_ That was simply too much to be borne.

He tore free from Susan's grasp and brought his fist crashing down on the table before the hearth, scattering sheaves of parchment and sending an empty water pitcher clattering to the floor. Trebonius shuffled back a few more steps, eyeing him warily, and Susan sighed heavily, crossing her arms and appearing obviously displeased by such violent displays of temper.

Peter was beyond caring. He glowered between them, vaguely hearing the pitcher still spinning on the floor, and was certain no one could now mistake the authority behind his words.

"I can, and I WILL! Trebonius, do as I tell you."

Susan still seemed unimpressed by his fury, and shook her head stubbornly. "Trebonius, stay where you are, my good captain. Peter, for heaven's sake sit down. When has losing your temper ever profited anyone?"

He glared at her and remained stubbornly standing, not ready to let her calm reason temper his fury. He turned his glare in Trebonius' direction a moment later, and was unsurprised to see the satyr shuffling his hooves miserably and looking desperately between his two monarchs—he was clearly unwilling to blatantly disobey a direct order from either of them.

"Peter, please, surely you see that such action is tantamount to declaring war on Calormen?" Susan seemed to take his lack of further shouting as a sign that he was ready to listen to her, and she stepped forward and put her hand on his arm again. Peter knew it was meant to be a comforting gesture, but he was still too furious for it to be effective.

 _Why can't she understand? Why does she always have to question my orders and undermine my leadership?_ He knew it wasn't really Susan he was angry at, but she was present and the offending Calormene were not.

"I don't care," he hissed furiously, as he wrenched his arm free from her grasp again. "If they can behave with so little respect and decorum perhaps war is our best recourse. I will not be preyed upon in my own kingdom, nor allow you to be subjected to such vile treatment." He was very nearly shouting again by the end of his statement, and Trebonius backed away another nervous step—seeming about to withdraw from the room in the hopes that Peter's anger would not be turned on him next.

"Your majesty, perhaps Queen Susan is right—" Trebonius began, showing a surprising amount of courage in daring to speak at all. The words, however, only served to infuriate Peter more.

"WILL NO ONE HEED MY ORDERS?" he bellowed, heedless of the fact that if he shouted much more Orieus would likely come bursting in as well. That occurrence would doubtless prove even more trying for Peter, as Orieus had never been one to flinch before his outrage and would, in all probability, side with Susan.

"Very well," he continued, lowering his voice to a more reasonable volume and taking a quick, though slightly unsteady, step towards the door. "I will see to it myself."

"Peter, we cannot afford an open war with Calormen. Please, see reason!" Susan caught his arm again, more desperately this time and stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the door.

"Su—"

"Edmund is in Calormen."

Susan alone always knew which words would cut through his rage most effectively, and at that particular moment he rather despised her ability to do so. He was not yet ready to be calm; not when Tarkaan Areesh had offered such a grievous insult to both their honours, but Susan was right. With difficulty he forced himself to unclench his fists and let his shoulders relax, though inwardly he was still seething.

Susan put her other hand on his shoulder and gently guided him back to his chair, before hastening to press the advantage, however slight, she had gained. "War with Calormen would cause them to be cautious, to double their watches for fear of our spies. If you do this Peter, then you may as sign our own brother's death warrant yourself."

There was no denying her words and Peter slumped back in the chair with a sigh, his fury draining away to be replaced with a sense of bone crushing defeat. "Very well," he conceded, covering his aching eyes with his hands and sighing. "Trebonius, return to your post; our Calormene visitors can remain—for now."

He heard rather than saw the faithful satyr bow, before the sound of his hooves faded and the door was pulled shut behind him. _I shall have to apologise to him later,_ he thought wearily, utterly disgusted that he had given into his rage so easily. _What in Aslan's name is wrong with me?_

Susan wrapped an arm around his shoulders and laid her cheek atop his head, her presence solid and comforting in its lack of rebuke. "Thank you," she said quietly, sounding as exhausted as he felt. "I know accepting my counsel is not always easy, but I believe it is necessary in this instance. The current situation with Calormen is precarious enough."

She paused with a sigh, and Peter knew she was remembering the same thing he was. _It is worse than precarious—if that bastard Tarkaan's plans were any indication of their current mood towards us._

"I know. I thank you for your counsel—many times these past years we have been saved from unnecessary war by your wisdom, dear sister." He smiled, trying to reassure her, but it didn't seem to work. She stepped away and dropped into the nearest chair with another sigh, clasping her hands together in her lap and staring at her intertwined fingers distractedly.

"Did we do the right thing, Peter?" she asked at last—he didn't have to wonder what she meant. "I don't see what else we could have done, what with—well, everything—but, perhaps we should have told him?"

"What would you have had me do?" His voice was sharper than he had intended it to be, but the flash of annoyance he felt was for himself, rather than Susan. _What ought I to have done?_ "Ought I to have told Edmund he risked being revealed as a traitor to the whole land, after the pains you and I both took to ensure no one beyond a handful of those who were with us at Beruna would ever know of it?" _Ought I to have told my brother, who has so recently begun to escape the shadows of past actions, that he would once again be forced to face the single transgression of half a lifetime ago?_

Susan clasped her hands more tightly against the folds of her dressing gown and Peter wondered if it was to hide the fact that they were shaking.

"No," she said at last. "I would not have had you tell him—not for the world. But, do you think we managed to deal with the situation effectively? There is still danger, surely."

Peter didn't think it would have been particularly helpful to tell her he had been worried about that very thing. A disgraced Tarkaan would hold less sway over the minds of the people, but it would be foolish to think a serpent's fangs could so easily be drawn. _And now Edmund is within his reach, practically alone and utterly unaware of the danger. I truly have been a fool!_

"I shouldn't have sent him. I was caught up in seeming brilliance of my plans—thinking how everything ought to work out beautifully. Lucy will deal with the Council, Edmund will gather the information we need, Peridan will be proved trustworthy or called out as a traitor—and all without me having to stir a step from my chair by the fire." He glared at the aforementioned fire, which had died down to a few glowing embers, and wished he could somehow recall the confidence he felt when sending Lucy and Edmund forth on their travels.

Susan unclenched her hands at last and stood, brushing the wrinkles from her dressing gown and smiling. Peter recognised the expression as one she always wore when it was necessary to put aside her own fears for the sake of her country. He wished he had her ability to push his concerns aside so quickly.

"Peter, we both know you would have gone yourself." She was obviously trying to be reasonable, as usual, and he currently found it rather galling. "I sent Sallowpad to Tashbaan," she continued a moment later, sounding rather reluctant to reveal her interference. "Perhaps he will be of some use in protecting Edmund. And Lucy has her guards, and Captain Rhegus will surely let no harm come to her."

Peter nodded, unable to summon the anger he felt he ought to have been present at Susan sending the Raven after Edmund without his knowledge. Sallowpad would certainly not have been his first choice, but then again, neither would Peridan. They had both done what they could—Edmund's safety now rested in Aslan's paws.

Susan gave him another brave smile and kissed him on the cheek, before stumbling wearily back into the corridor. Peter watched her go before turning to glare at the streaks of colour appearing in the Eastern sky. _Well, at least this day cannot get much worse,_ he thought, hoping his optimism was well founded. He later reflected that he really ought to have known better.

* * *

As so often happens with days that begin poorly, matters did not improve. The Tarkheena—whose name Peter still could not recall being told—seemed to have taken her previous rejection far more lightly than she ought, and by mid-day Peter's worn patience had quite nearly reached its limit for the second time that day.

"Bloody suitors!" he remarked savagely, resisting the urge to knock the water pitcher off the table again.

Brickle turned curiously at his outburst, and Peter waved him away impatiently only to call him back a moment later as an idea struck him. "Brickle, go to King Edmund's rooms and bring me back his papers, if you would be so kind."

"H-his papers?" Brickle stammered, face paling rapidly.

"Yes, his papers. Is there a problem?" _Why is everyone looking at me like I've gone mad today?_ Upon further reflection he supposed it might have something to do with his disheveled appearance and the annoyance he had displayed when removing Tarkaan Areesh's sister from his chambers for the fifth time in as many hours. The girl was nothing if not persistent, and Peter found it much easier to dismiss his guards and deal with throwing her out personally, rather than endure listening to the nearly constant stream of challenges and flimsy excuses—provided by the guards and the girl respectively.

"Well, no your majesty, not as such, only—well, have you seen the amount of papers his majesty keeps in his rooms?" Brickle tugged on his beard, looking thoroughly miserable. "And I really do not think he would take kindly to me moving any of them."

As a matter of fact, Peter had not seen the amount of papers his brother kept and would ordinarily have no desire to, but the current situation merited desperate action. "Very well," he said, sighing and hobbling to his feet. "Then perhaps you would be so kind as to refrain from informing Queen Susan I have left my rooms."

He vaguely recalled an old phrase from The Other Place involving mountains and prophets that seemed apt in such an instance, although he felt rather more like the mountain as he was forced to stumble clumsily in an attempt to keep most of his weight on one foot.

"Your majesty, wait, please!" Brickle called after him, seeming to be in a state of great agitation, but Peter ignored him.

Edmund's rooms were only across the corridor, but by the time he reached the door to his brother's study Peter was certain it must have been half as far as the distance from Cair Paravel to Ettinsmoor. It certainly did not help matters that, despite Susan's coffee-aided intervention of the previous night, his head ached abominably.

 _Suitors, giants, and vintners,_ he thought sullenly—recounting the groups who were currently at risk of his wrath. And if there was nothing in Edmund's papers that might help bar the first group from Cair Paravel, or at least reduce their number, then _he_ risked being added to the ever-expanding list.

Brickle blocked his way as he reached the door that led to his brother' rooms, and Peter was rather surprised by the look of stubborn determination on the dwarf's face.

"Brickle?" he asked, raising his eyebrows and hoping his expression made it clear that he was not to be trifled with currently.

Brickle tugged at his beard, which seemed to be something of a nervous habit for him, and did not move aside. "Beg pardon, your majesty, but King Edmund left orders that no one was to be allowed in his rooms. He hasn't let the servants in for months—not even to clean."

That was news to Peter. Edmund had always been far more reclusive than he was himself, but barring everyone from his private rooms for months on end was entirely new behaviour, even for him.

"No one?" he echoed, not caring that he sounded a little foolish. "But food, and—" he fumbled vaguely for a suitable excuse for servants to be in Edmund's rooms. "and laundry, and such?"

Brickle tugged harder at his beard, eyes flicking uneasily between his still grubby boots and Peter's face. "King Edmund does not take meals in his private chambers," he mumbled at last. "And the washing has been set out in a basket every week for the past five months."

 _Five months?_ That was a very particular amount of time, and one Peter did not at all like. Five months had been a month before he departed for the North. Five months corresponded exactly with the date Edmund was brought home from Tashbaan by his thoroughly confused guards, unconscious and with no memory of the past three weeks. _Unless he lied._

Four and a half months previously, nearly to the day, Peter had found himself face to face with a sneering Tarkaan in a Calormene tavern. Obridesh had thought him able to do little more than listen as he outlined his plan to destroy Narnia—and it began with his abduction of Edmund. Peter had done far more than listen. He had plotted and schemed, and it had been with Susan's help that they had spread such rumours about Obridesh that even the Tisroc would not be able to overlook them.

Peter had been afraid then, as he had not been in years, but war with Calormen was not a risk Narnia could afford to take. To kill the Tarkaan, even in single combat, would surely have provoked war.

 _Duty before family,_ he had reminded himself the day he learned that the Tarkaan had been disgraced and banished from the Tisroc's palace. He had repeated the mantra silently every day since then, but it never seemed to lessen the foreboding he felt.

Orieus had warned him once that if he must fight a wild animal he should take care to kill it outright, never to wound it. A wounded beast was an enraged beast, only made stronger and more savage by its pain. They had wounded the Tarkaan, they had hidden the truth, and never spoken of it again until that very morning. And yet, somehow, Peter could scarcely now doubt his brother had known all along.

He pushed Brickle aside, not caring that he did so far more roughly than he ought, and flung the doors open.

Papers and books—every available surface was covered in them. They littered the floor, leaned in untidy piles against the walls, buried the desk and its accompanying chair, and he could see through the connecting door that Edmund's bedchamber had fared no better. It seemed that half the library had made its way into his younger brother's rooms. Upon further inspection, however, it seemed it was only the half on Calormen.

He stepped cautiously over the twenty or so volumes of _Calormene Genealogy_ , gritting his teeth when he put an incautious amount of weight on his ankle, and surveyed the disaster before him.

 _He knew, he knew all this time, or at least guessed, and he never said._ But, just how much Edmund knew, was not something Peter currently wanted to speculate on. It was best to assume that his brother had somehow discovered the full extent of the Tarkaan's plot—and had done nothing to defend himself against it. Well, if locking himself in his rooms with hundreds of books could reasonably be considered doing nothing.

 _But he didn't lock himself in, he only locked everyone else out._ It was that which puzzled Peter most of all. In the month he had been back at Cair Paravel there had never been any indication of Edmund's usual peculiar behaviour when he fell to brooding. He had been pale, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. Susan once remarked of her younger brother that "if you put him in the sun he would turn red as a boiled lobster—for all of five minutes before being as pale as ever". It was a remarkably true observation, and even now it made him smile, though his amusement was short lived as he returned his attention to the horrifying amount of papers that were covered in Edmund's messily scrawled writing.

"Brickle?" The dwarf did not answer, and Peter felt a wave of guilt at how he had been treating the poor fellow. "It's alright, Brickle, I won't tell King Edmund anything save that you tried to stop me. But, I would greatly value your aid."

That seemed to do the trick and Brickle shuffled in, perpetually tugging on his beard and looking very nervous. "Are you sure—well, are you sure he's gone, your majesty?"

Peter realised then that the dwarf's nervousness had very little to do with him at all, and he could understand the poor fellow's uncertainty. Any number of humans and assorted Creatures might have been hiding in the untidy stacks and neither of them would have been the wiser to it.

"Quite sure," he reassured him quickly, hurriedly displacing a small mountain of books and dropping gratefully into the marginally cleared chair. "Now, tell me the truth, my good dwarf, how much of this were you aware of?"

He had not earlier missed how Brickle said _servants_ , implicitly excluding himself from the number of Narnians not allowed in Edmund's rooms. Brickle, if possible, looked decidedly more miserable.

"Your majesty, please," he stared down at the sooty tracks his boots had left on a trailing piece of parchment and tugged harder on his beard—actually managing to tug a good bit of it _out_. "I swore I wouldn't tell you anything about it!"

 _Why does anyone bother to tell me anything? Just swear not to tell and keep me in the dark—that sounds like a marvelous idea!_ He controlled his expression with difficulty and tried to keep his voice level, but was fairly certain he did not do a very good job of it.

"I am the High King," he said quietly, forcing the volume of his voice to remain reasonable, even though he did feel like shouting. "That title is not a mere formal courtesy bestowed on me by Aslan, it is a measure of my authority. My good dwarf, it is well within that authority to override my brother's orders, if necessary, and force you on your allegiance, to tell me what you know."

"Please, your majesty," Brickle pleaded, stubbornly loyal. "Do not make me break my oath."

 _Being High King does not necessarily mean you will always get your way,_ he reminded himself sternly when he felt inclined to stamp his foot childishly. _I may have the power to force him into speaking, but that does not mean I should use it. Unless…_ something in the dwarf's manner suggested he _wanted_ to speak, despite his refusal to do so.

" _Do not make me break my oath"—not, "Do not make me reveal the full extent of your infuriating brother's temporary insanity in keeping secrets from you"._ Well, he supposed Brickle wouldn't have said the last bit anyway, but his plea was rather telling nonetheless.

"You swore to _tell_ me nothing about it, is that correct?"

Brickle nodded and at last abandoned tugging on his beard—he appeared somewhat hopeful that his occasionally dense sovereign was at last catching on, and Peter could have slapped himself for being so slow.

"That includes, but is not limited to, writing and speaking?" _Edmund would have been thorough—what else is there?_

"I am also not allowed to sing, draw, carve, dance, or use any form of code to communicate the information to you, or to anyone else, your majesty," the dwarf offered helpfully.

 _Little brothers,_ Peter scowled as he mentally added to the growing list in his head. _But are they better or worse than vintners? Certainly, better than giants and suitors. What in Aslan's name is wrong with me today? Perhaps I_ am _going mad._ He shook his head and returned his thoughts to the current problem. Edmund had been altogether too thorough in his restrictions of Brickle's communication methods.

"What if you were to show me which papers you think most informative?" It seemed an empty hope, and he was surprised when Brickle grinned.

"Now that I can do, your majesty," he agreed heartily, appearing far happier than Peter could ever remember the nervous, frightened chap looking before. He threaded his way through the precarious piles of books, some of which were taller than he was, and returned a moment later with a stack of handwritten manuscripts.

The stack constituted a mere fraction of the papers in the disordered jumble of Edmund's rooms, but Peter still groaned upon being faced by page after page of closely written text. _He writes far too much,_ he concluded with absolute certainty as he hastily scanned the first page. The writing was a trifle shaky and it was dated five months previously. It had obviously been written when Edmund was recovering from what had occurred in Tashbaan.

 _Fact: I remember nothing of these past weeks between falling asleep in my chambers in the Tisroc's court and waking in my own bed at Cair Paravel. By the estimations of my guards I was missing for fully three weeks._

 _Conclusion: I've either gone mad (unlikely), or someone has taken great pains to ensure I have no memory of whatever transpired during my absence (abduction?)._

 _Fact: Peter has gone storming off to Tashbaan in his usual foul temper at finding one of his family mistreated._

 _Conclusion: My brother is a loveable fool._

 _Loveable fool?_ Peter thought, glaring at the parchment furiously. _Am I a fool to guard the treasures more precious to me than all of Narnia combined so jealously?_ On further reflection he was forced to conclude his methods of guarding were, at times, rather extreme. He supposed throwing one of the Doornish nobles off the docks, into the sea, might qualify as one of those times. Susan had been outraged, but not nearly as outraged as he had been himself upon discovering the fellow lurking outside her private rooms.

He reluctantly returned to the stack of parchment, finding the next entry to be written in a much steadier hand.

 _Fact: Peter returned from Tashbaan in a worse humour than he left. Susan has also been out of sorts and overly smothering—even for her._

 _Conclusion: Peter and Susan know precisely what occurred in Tashbaan and have conspired to keep it from me. They likely believe they have handled the situation sufficiently without my aid. Utter nonsense._

 _Fact: My spies report that Tarkaan Obridesh, royal advisor to the Tisroc, may his beard fall out, has recently been disgraced and banished from the royal palace._

 _Conclusion: This cannot be a coincidence, given that Peter and Susan are so recently returned from Tashbaan and the rumours circulating about Obridesh began mere hours after their departure._

 _Secondary Conclusion: Obridesh is the one who held me prisoner in Tashbaan._

 _Tertiary Conclusion: A man clever enough to steal me away from under the noses of my guards, and spies, and hold me captive against my will for any amount of time merits very careful consideration. The planning and execution of such a plot would take an enormous amount of wit—such a canny man will not let mere disgrace prevent him from achieving his ends._

 _Fact: Peter leaves for Ettinsmoor in two days' time and refuses to allow me to accompany him._

 _Conclusion: My moronically protective brother still fears for my safety._

 _Secondary Conclusion: I must discover all I can about both Obridesh and my time in Tashbaan in Peter's absence._

 _Moronically protective? Yet I sent him back to Calormen, knowing the danger—even suspecting that the threat posed by Obridesh was not fully neutralised? Duty before family,_ he reminded himself, with less conviction than he had felt previously. But, if he was being entirely honest with himself he had felt distinctly less worried at sending Edmund to Calormen than he now felt he ought to have been. _Why is that?_

It was obvious the answer to that particular question would not be found in Edmund's papers. He sighed and began to hobble to his feet when Brickle stopped him with a reluctant clearing of his throat.

"What is it, Brickle?"

The dwarf held out another page of parchment, his hand shaking slightly. "Your majesty, you may wish to read this one as well."

Peter took the page and saw the date with a sinking heart.

 _First of Greenroof, 1012_

 _Fact: My agents report that Athelstan has at last formally requested Peter's aid in quelling talk of secession by the Council._

 _Conclusion: Peter cannot go to Narrowhaven, Susan must remain at Cair to entertain suitors—that leaves Lucy and me._

 _Secondary Conclusion: It must be Lucy. I must convince Peter, if he does not come to the conclusion on his own, to send Lucy to Narrowhaven and me to Calormen. I must do so without generating suspicion or he will insist upon accompanying me. He must not be allowed to do so if the full extent of Obridesh's plot is even nearly as vast as I have been led to believe._

 _Peter-_

 _I am very likely to murder you when I return—if you do not first react in similar fashion. It was reasonably clever of you to try outwitting Obridesh on your own, save for Susan, but you must have known it would not be enough to long deter him._

 _You should not have kept his plans from me—have I not long since proven my ability to separate personal experiences from duty? More than that, you should not have hidden the truth of my treachery from our people for so many years. Keeping secrets serves only to provide weapons to men like Obridesh—had I been wiser twelve years ago I would have told the people the truth myself._

 _We have been given the power and authority to rule Narnia by Aslan—that does not give us the excuse to misuse our power for selfish reasons Pete. I do value your somewhat clumsy attempts to protect me, but, as I have reminded you countless times over the years, I am not a child. You do not need to protect me as zealously as you once did._

 _Aslan guard you, brother._

Brickle backed away quickly as Peter crumpled the sheet of parchment in his fist, but Peter barely spared him a glance. Edmund had known he would discover the truth, his letter proved that, and Peter decided that brothers were perhaps the most trying individuals on his list. Giants could be killed, suitors could be avoided or thrown out, vintners did little damage save for providing him with the means to acquire a headache, but brothers—brothers were an insufferable nuisance.

"Brickle," he said at last, surprised by how calm he sounded. "Send for Metelus, perhaps he can help me make sense of the rest of this." He gestured vaguely towards the room at large, crushing the parchment in his hand until his knuckles ached.

 _Insufferable nuisance or no,_ he thought shakily, _I pray Aslan brings you home safely._

 **Poor Peter! Anyway, leave me a review if you liked this chapter and the next will be posted in a week-if all goes well :-)**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	6. Tash Among Us

**Here is this; thank you again to PaintingMusic14 for taking the time to look it over and catch my typos!**

 **I am completely overwhelmed by the amount of support for this story! Thank you so much! It makes me so happy to see so many people reading and reviewing :-) Seriously, you guys majorly brighten my week!**

 **One thing I seem to be hearing consistently is...update! Well, alright :-) I will attempt to move to twice weekly updates and see how that works, so expect another chapter on Saturday. Hopefully I can accomplish that :-)**

 **Guest: Thank you so much! I am glad you are enjoying this story so much :-)**

 **Aslan's Daughter: Your only complaint will be answered with updates! So glad you are still reading and enjoying. To answer your question, yes, I am working on a prequel to this story which takes place in Tashbaan during the time Edmund cannot remember. However, it will have to be posted after this story is complete because otherwise it would spoil some of the plot twists :-)**

 _Far to the South of Narnia, over the mountain pass and beyond the borders of Archenland, across the great desert, the city of Tashbaan stands between sand and sea. In this city lived a man called Obresh Tarkaan. He was very wealthy and lived in a grand palace—right at the heart of the city—and his power and authority were second only to the Tisroc's, may he live forever. But, despite all his riches and the respect he had earned of his fellows, the Tarkaan was very unhappy. His wife was all that he could desire in kindness and in beauty and could truly be called the delight of his eyes, but Obresh was growing old and they were yet childless._

 _Tarkaan and his Tarkheena were forever visiting the temple of the great god Tash in supplication, and great were their sacrifices—greater still were the sacrifices they swore on their very souls to make—should The Inexorable grant them a child of their own bloodline. For years their pleas were unanswered and Obresh fell into despair—taking a mistress of Northern birth in the hopes that she could give him a son._

 _The Tarkaan's mistress begged her lord to release her, for she had been captured from Archenland and had not come to Tashbaan of her own will. Though the Tarkaan was kind to her she longed for the cool mountains and snowy forests of her home, but Obresh had grown desperate and would not heed her pleas._

 _In time word was given to Obresh that the woman was with child, and great was his rejoicing when she bore him a son. The Tarkaan was content, but a seed of hate was planted in the Tarkheena's once gentle heart—against the woman who could give her husband what she had so long failed to, and against the son who should have been hers. She went again in secret to the temple of Tash, cloaked and hooded, and knelt before his bloody altar. There she swore to do even greater things in his service, if only he would grant her a son of her own—a true heir for her lord._

 _It had long been known that Tash, for all his power and majesty, was a harsh Lord—but even he was moved by the Tarkheena's tears and her promises of the power she would win for him. He appeared to her then, in the guise of a great Vulture with eyes of fire, and spoke—asking what more she could grant him than had already been promised by her husband._

 _The Tarkheena's spirit was strong, but even she cowered in the presence of her god—falling to her face before him. "Oh Tash, Inexorable and Irresistible," spoke the Tarkheena. "I would gladly give all I have and all I could ever gain, if only you would grant me a son. You are great and terrible in majesty and there is nothing your power cannot accomplish. Have pity upon me, oh master of my soul, and heed the cries of a distraught woman."_

 _Now it so happened, that across the desert, and the mountains, and the country of Archenland lay another land—frozen in eternal winter and peopled by the spirits of Trees, and Waters, and roamed by Animals who spoke with voices of men—and this land was called Narnia. Tash had long desired this land—for it was a place of strong magic and many riches—and when he heard the Tarkheena's plea, he saw in his wisdom, that she would grant him anything he desired—even the land of Narnia if it were within her power to do so._

 _So Tash spoke to her once again and swore to grant her wish, if she would swear in return to grant him whatever he desired when the time came. The Tarkheena wept with joy, and bowed before him in thanks before swearing on her soul—and the souls of all those beloved to her—that she would grant her Dread Lord his price. Having sworn thus the Tarkheena departed the temple of Tash and returned to the house of her husband._

 _She threw off the cloak and hood of her mourning and dressed herself in her finest gown and jewels. She embraced her husband and was merry, but told him nothing of what had passed between her and Tash._

 _The Tarkheena remained childless, despite Tash's promise, for three years more until, in the midst of summer, on the last day of the Great Festival of Tash, she bore a son and named him Obridesh. The Tarkaan, who had long ago despaired that his beloved would give him a child rejoiced greatly and swore that he would grant her whatever she most desired._

 _In the time between the Tarkheena's visit to Tash's temple and the birth of her son, the other son of Obresh had grown into a fine young lad and was much beloved by his father. Seeing this the Tarkheena's hate grew and flowered—and the fruit of that hate was poison. When her son was borne she feared Obresh would still find favour for the other child, who he had named Emreth, and so bade him send both mother and child far from his palace._

 _Obresh wept bitterly at his wife's demand, for, though he loved his infant son, the other boy was as much his own as Obridesh. He begged his wife, entreating with her for many days, before she at last relented. She resolved to tolerate the boy's presence if his mother were sent away and Emreth himself remained merely a servant in his father's house._

 _Obresh agreed, though it caused his heart pain for his son to be denied the title due to him, and sent his Mistress away, across the desert and back to the forests and mountains of her well-beloved home._

 _The two sons of Obresh Tarkaan grew swiftly, and though the Tarkheena hated Emreth, Obresh never forgot the love he felt for his firstborne. He saw that the lad was educated well in the ways of his people and when Obridesh was of an age to learn he joined his brother in his lessons._

 _All who saw the two boys declared they had yet to see two brothers so devoted to each other, and so blessed by Tash. They were scarcely to be parted from each other's company, save when Emreth's duties as stable boy called him from his brother's side. They fought, as all brothers must, but by the time they had grown from boys to young men it seemed there was nothing which could come between them._

 _In all the years that passed the Tarkheena never spoke of her long-ago meeting with Tash—though she never forgot the debt she owed him and at times her fear nearly overcame the joy she felt for the son she had been granted. She was a canny woman and knew that Tash would soon exact his price and feared he would take that which was most precious to her—the life of Obridesh her son._

 _When Obridesh had reached his seventeenth year the Tarkheena once more journeyed to the great Temple and prostrated herself before the altar._

" _Oh Tash, mighty and terrible," spoke she. "You have granted me a son and for that you have my undying thanks and service. Oh my dreaded Lord, I promised you many years since that I would grant you whatever price you asked, and yet, you have demanded nothing from me. I come before you, your servant always, to inquire what I must do in recompense for the life you have granted."_

 _Tash once more took the form of a great vulture with eyes of fire and once more terror gripped the spirit of the Tarkheena and she fell to the floor before him, and could not lift her eyes to gaze upon him._

" _Oh foolish woman!" chided Tash. "That you should think to summon me as if I were yours to command. It is you, oh weak hearted daughter, who have promised your soul—and the souls of all your beloved—to me and it is I who command you. For your insolence I will punish you by telling what it is I require of you."_

" _There is a land, far to the North of here, peopled by demons and ghouls, many of whom possess great magic. They think themselves my equals, and are forever defying me—in my power I could destroy them with a mere thought—and yet, I desire that land and governance over it more than I desire its destruction. You will travel to this land and win its throne and power for me or I will take the life your son, oh wretched worm, which was granted only through my grace."_

 _Hearing these words the Tarkheena's courage fled from her, for she had heard many tales of Narnia and knew what land it was her Lord spoke of. "Oh, my most dreaded Lord," spoke the Tarkheena, though her blood was like water in her veins. "I am woman, and weak with age. I have not now the strength to journey so far, nor to conquer the kingdom you desire. I beg you, have mercy upon me, oh Lord of my Soul, and do not take the delight of my old age from me. Have mercy!"_

 _Tash heard her pleas, but would not this time be moved by her tears and laughed at her weakness. "Oh that it had been your husband who made such a bargain with me, for he would have served his Lord to better purpose!"_

 _But he was resolute in his demands and dropped at her feet a knife which his claws had clutched through all their conference. "In your weakness, foolish wretch, you cannot conquer a kingdom. But take this knife, and travel with it to the castle of Cair Paravel. There you shall find four thrones and upon those four thrones sit four sovereigns who have been granted dominion over all Narnia. Bow before them and drive this blade into your own flesh—it will take your life, but not before they have sprung forward to help you, for they are mere children and weakhearted. Cut the hand of the High King with this blade and when his blood mixes with yours upon it your spirit will flee your body and find new lodging in that of the King. From his throne you shall overthrow the other three and bring Narnia under my eternal rule—for this is the price I demand of you who dare make requests of me."_

 _The Tarkheena wept bitterly when she heard these words, for Tash's orders meant her death and separation from her beloved son. She pleaded with him for the space of seven days, but in all that time The Inexorable would not be moved and the Tarkheena fell into a bleak despair. To deny the Dread god his price would be to forfeit her son's life, but to accept would be to lose him just as surely._

 _At the end of the seventh day the Tarkheena cast down the knife of Tash and turned her back on him—resolving that if she must be separated from her son they would die in each other's company. She returned to the house of her husband and wept, and called for her son to come to her, but Obridesh had gone riding—hunting lions in the south with Emreth his brother—and the wrath of Tash was swifter than the messengers of the Tarkheena._

 _When the two sons of Obresh returned to their father's house it was to find the palace in mourning and the Tarkheena lying dead in her chamber. For Tash desired Narnia above all else and was resolved to have it, and so he took the life of the mother and not of the son, remembering well that the Tarkheena had sworn her oath upon the souls of all who were beloved to her._

 _Obresh mourned his wife deeply and would not be consoled, even by the strength of the love he bore for his sons and they for him. Not many months beyond her death the Tarkheena's husband joined her in the Earth's cold embrace and Obridesh was left an orphan, with no living kin save his faithful brother Emreth._

 _He took his father's place as Royal Advisor to the Tisroc, may he live forever, but found no joy in the cruelties he was duty bound to perform—for he was kind of heart. His only solace was found in the hours free of duty when he could slip away from Tashbaan to race on horseback through the Southern Wilderness with Emreth at his side. And so he lived, the last of the Tarkheena's beloved souls, unaware of the curse that lurked in every shadow and the vulture that circled high above his head—Tash would bide his time, but when the time was ripe the Knife would pass to Obridesh and Narnia would fall._

 _10_ _th_ _. of Greenroof—Fifthday, 1012_

Peridan had thought he could not be more miserable than he had been on the voyage to Tashbaan—he quickly learned he had been mistaken. Tarkaan's goblet barely stopped spinning on the filthy floor before King Edmund had collected the Tarkaan's scimitar, replaced it in its empty sheath, and was on his feet. He draped one of the unconscious man's arms over his shoulders—which proved rather ineffective considering the Tarkaan was a good three inches taller than the Narnian king. After trying, and failing, to drag the Tarkaan across the room on his own King Edmund scowled in annoyance and turned to Peridan with a resigned sigh.

"If you would kindly aid me in assisting our _friend_ to his rooms?" It was phrased as a question, but it never occurred to Peridan that he could refuse. He hastily collected the King's pack from beneath the table and took the Tarkaan's other arm. He nearly gagged at the combined smell of cheap wine, unwashed clothing, and stale rosewater, but stubbornly kept his expression neutral.

It was clear to Peridan that King Edmund thought him a useless fool—if he could prove him wrong then perhaps there was the slightest chance he could earn the man's favour, and thereby reclaiming his ancestral land. All his life he had clung desperately to his dream of becoming a Narnian—of returning to his home as its rightful lord—and that dream was now nearly strong enough to overcome his distress at the more distasteful aspects of his mission.

King Edmund called out cheerfully to the innkeeper and a short, rather loud exchange followed—ending only when a purse of gold was tossed in the man's direction and the location of the Tarkaan's room was revealed. Greed, it seemed, would always be a stronger motivator than good sense for the innkeeper barely seemed reluctant in revealing the information to two armed and apparently drunken strangers.

It was with a great amount of difficulty—and no small amount of cursing—that they managed to half carry, half drag the Tarkaan up the narrow flight of stairs and into the disgracefully shabby room the innkeeper had directed them to. By the time they managed it Peridan's shins were thoroughly bruised by the number of times he had stumbled and banged them against the stairs, and King Edmund was looking distinctly pale and short of breath.

Once inside the door, King Edmund dropped the Tarkaan's arm and Peridan hastily followed suit, relieved to not only be free of the fellow's weight, but also of the smell that clung to him. He crumpled to the floor, still insensible, and the King did not spare him a second glance as he let the carefully muddled, drunk expression he had used when speaking to the innkeeper fade from his face.

"Bar the door," he ordered shortly, stepping over the unconscious Obridesh to begin rummaging through the untidy heap that constituted most of the man's possessions—which were lying jumbled beside the narrow bed.

Peridan hastened to pull the rusted and mostly useless bolt across the door—though he was certain it would not withstand even a moderately forceful kick—and turned back to survey the room. If he had thought the main portion of the inn to be filthy the Tarkaan's room was far worse. Tattered, wine-stained clothes covered a good bit of the floor, the straw of the mattress was foul with mold, and Peridan caught a glimpse of a grey shape he took to be rat in the corner. He wrinkled his nose in disgust as he looked back down at the Tarkaan's unconscious body.

 _If this is what happens when you fall foul of the Tisroc I must endeavour not to follow Obridesh's example,_ he thought with a fair amount of determination.A moment later he bit back a laugh at the absurdity of the thought. Falling foul of the Tisroc was most likely an inevitable result of traveling with King Edmund—if they lived long enough to even be worth his notice.

King Edmund turned at the snort of amusement Peridan couldn't quite hide and raised an eyebrow at him. "So, you do have a sense of humour," he remarked, seeming genuinely pleased by this revelation, before turning back to continue rummaging through the pile of stained clothes and ragged bedding—kneeling on the floor despite the filth.

Peridan frowned slightly, wondering where the King had gotten the impression that he did _not_ find amusement in the world. _So, h_ e _not only thinks me a fool, but a dreadful bore as well._ It was not a reassuring thought, given that so much of his own future seemed to rest on his ability to find favour with Narnia's monarchs.

Peridan shifted his weight from foot to foot and shot a nervous glance at the door—it hardly seemed possible that no one would suspect their business and he fully expected a troupe of armed Calormenes to burst through flimsily barred construction at any moment. When no Calormenes appeared, he shifted his gaze from the door to the unconscious Tarkaan—who was snoring quietly and appeared peaceful enough. _But how long can we expect him to remain so?_

"A few hours," the king said quietly, in answer to Peridan's unspoken question—that raised an entirely different question.

"Did you drug him, your m—" he barely caught himself before the "your majesty" automatically attached itself to the end of his sentence.

"Of course. An unconscious Tarkaan is an excellent excuse to search his rooms." He got to his feet with a scowl and kicked crossly at the pile of clothes and bedding. "It might actually have been a useful risk to take—if there was anything here."

"Your—" Peridan broke off suddenly as he caught sight of the king's left hand and saw the steady flow of blood dripping from his fingers. "You're bleeding!"

King Edmund's mouth twitched in amusement at his clumsy recovery, but did not comment. He crossed the room to the pack Peridan had discarded near the door, rummaged through it for a long moment, and pulled out a strip of cotton bandage. He examined his bleeding hand with detached interest—the scratch was in reality a three inch gash across his palm where the Tarkaan's sword had cut him before he had brought his knife up to block the rest of the blow—then wrapped the strip of cloth around it. "So it would seem—jolly lucky Peter convinced me to bring bandages at all—the Tarkaan might be cross if I got blood on his assorted possessions." The last statement was obviously meant as a joke, but Peridan couldn't quite manage to laugh—his knees had gone rather weak at the sight of the blood.

"Help me look, will you?" King Edmund seemed utterly unconcerned with his hand now that it was bandaged.

"But, my lord, you're bleeding." Peridan repeated, feeling rather foolish and cursing himself for once again failing to address the king as he had been charged to. _Perhaps I truly am a useless fool._

For once, King Edmund seemed not to notice the too formal method of address—or if he did, he did not comment—though he did look vaguely annoyed by Peridan's continued protests. "As I told the Tarkaan, a scratch—which will stop bleeding soon enough—especially now," he added, waving his bandaged hand vaguely in Peridan's direction. "Now help me search, if you would."

Peridan was incredibly reluctant to go anywhere near the corner where the rat was lurking, the king had already searched through the jumble of clothes, and he had no idea what they were looking for. He wandered aimlessly towards the small table and fragile looking chair in the other corner and began to shift cautiously through the pile of filthy plates and goblets that littered it.

"My lord?"

King Edmund sighed audibly and turned towards him with a raised eyebrow. "Yes, _Perrin_?"

"What exactly are you hoping to find?" He barely caught a pewter bowl before it could crash to the floor and replaced it on the top of a teetering stack of similar bowls—it seemed the Tarkaan had been living in this room for quite some time.

"Papers—letters, orders—anything that might reveal a connection between the Lone Islands and Calormen." The King kicked crossly at the straw mattress, sending a cloud of mold dust into the air, and shook his head. "Only there seems to be nothing here."

 _The Lone Islands and Calormen?_ Peridan was puzzled by how often the King seemed to draw a connection between the two lands, and he frowned uncomprehendingly. _Calormene warships sailing for Narrowhaven, talk of political and military coups, and yet no one seems willing to explain anything to me._ Still, he found it was usually best if he seemed to know more than he actually did, so he refrained from asking any questions which might reveal the true depth of his ignorance.

"Why Obridesh?" he asked instead—abandoning his search of the table and throwing another nervous glance in the still unconscious man's direction. "Surely a disgraced Tarkaan can be of little use to you, my lord."

The King shook his head, crossing to the window and tugging the sagging shutters open to examine the gaps in the wood for hidden papers. "I thought he might still have more favour with the Tisroc than is immediately apparent. Obridesh is a clever man and should not be underestimated, but perhaps—"

Whatever he had been about to say was cut short as, with a flutter of wings and a sonorous croak, an enormous raven swept through the recently opened window and alighted on King Edmund's shoulder.

Peridan found himself stumbling back in fright—ravens were creatures associated with death and the worst of luck in Archenland and the sudden appearance of one was enough to make Peridan's knees go weak. King Edmund, however, seemed not at all distressed—though his expression did display a certain annoyance as he transferred the raven easily from his shoulder to his right forearm.

"What is the meaning of this, good cousin?" he asked sternly, and Peridan received a second nasty shock when the raven tilted its head to one side as if trying very hard to understand—and answered him in a rough but nearly human voice.

"I was sent by your sister, Queen Susan, to see that your majesty remains in possession of both your senses and your limbs," the Bird croaked, following the words with a harsh—though not unpleasant—laugh.

 _A Raven, not merely a raven in the sense I am familiar with,_ Peridan corrected himself—though he still felt distinctly uneasy in the Bird's presence.

King Edmund nodded, seeming unsurprised by the revelation and deposited the Bird on the narrow windowsill. "I see. And does my dear sister's concern have anything to do with the Tarkaan currently lying unconscious on the floor, my good Sallowpad?"

Sallowpad laughed again and the feathers along his back ruffled slightly as he turned his beady eyes first upon Peridan and then upon Obridesh. "Your majesty is clever—nearly clever enough for a Raven."

Peridan was utterly uncertain what he ought to make of this unusually informal exchange and he found himself wishing yet again that the High King had not chosen him to accompany King Edmund. Surely there must have been _someone_ more suited to the task than he was himself—someone more used to the peculiarities displayed by Narnians.

"Fly to the docks," King Edmund was saying to Sallowpad, speaking urgently now. "If you must be here you may as well make yourself useful. Listen to what gossip you can and find, if possible, a ship sailing to Narrowhaven in two days' time—three at the most—but take care you are not seen. I trust you will be able to find me again when you have learned what you can?"

The Raven tilted his head with an indignant croak and Peridan flinched at the Creature's impertinence—King Edmund seemed characteristically unconcerned by it, but Peridan had to bite his tongue to keep from scolding the Bird.

Sallowpad hopped forward to the edge of the window-sill before turning his head back to peer over his shoulder. "Have a care, your majesty, a Vulture circles above and I fear he means mischief." With those cryptic words he spread his wings and launched his glossy body forward and up into the late afternoon sky.

Peridan—though he did not know what the Raven meant—shuddered at the foreboding intonation of his words. _A vulture—a carrion bird of the battlefield._ He shuddered again, then felt his face flush in shame as King Edmund turned and saw his expression of fear. The King, however, did not seem disdainful and merely smiled in what was most likely meant to be a reassuring way.

"He means Tash," the King explained calmly, gathering up the pack from the floor. "The Calormene god. He is said to sometimes take the form of a Vulture so that he can fly high above Tashbaan. He looks down upon his people from the sky, and wherever the shadows of his wings fall terror grips the hearts of the Calormenes. We should go."

Peridan could not have agreed more heartily—though he believed firmly that they should leave Calormen altogether and knew King Edmund simply meant the inn. There was something in the air of this strange place that Peridan did not at all like.

 _Perhaps I am simply being a coward,_ he thought as they left the Tarkaan still slumped on the floor and made their way back down the narrow staircase. _But I cannot help feeling that death is lurking around every corner of this cursed city._

In the now silent room of the decrepit inn, Tarkaan Obridesh opened his eyes with a sly smile, and stood without a hint of the dizziness which should have accompanied his waking. He crossed to the open window, looking down at the two figures slipping through the narrow street, and his smile widened—his eyes glittering with barely contained malevolence.

"Narnia will fall, oh foolish King," he said softly. "For the glory of Tash."

Far above in the scorched, cloudless sky, a Vulture with eyes of flame circled the city—spreading wings of darkest shadow wide as he passed between Earth and Sun. For a moment, all of Tashbaan lay cloaked in his shadow and despair gripped the hearts of every Calormen within the walls. Tash was with them, and they were afraid.

 **Do let me know what you think! Thank you for all the reviews so far, and hopefully I will be updating on Saturday as planned. :-)**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	7. Tash Among Us-Part II

**I'm dreadfully late-since I was supposed to post this on Saturday-so sorry! Please do excuse any slight errors in this chapter. If it doesn't make sense I blame it on a scrambled brain and hopefully my beta will catch most of the errors once I send it to her.**

 **Aslan's Daughter: Sorry you didn't actually get your two updates on time :-( As for the Biblical allusion; I think you're the first person to tell me they noticed that, so well done! It was intentional, though I did stray from direct allegory by adding an even darker twist. As far as the other brother being sent away-I perhaps didn;t make it entirely clear. The Tarkheena wants Emreth sent away, ut Obresh convinces her to relent, so only Emreth's mother ends up being sent away. Description of the knife is included in this chapter! The dates will be made clear by the end of the story ;-). Thank you for reviewing! Hope you like this chapter as well.**

 **Guest: I am happy to hear I have the necessary aspects for a good fanfiction covered! So glad to hear you are enjoying this story, and I hope this chapter meets with your approval as well. :-)**

 _10th. Greenroof, 1012-Fifthday_

Sallowpad rejoined them some hours later, swooping down from the swiftly darkening sky to alight on Edmund's shoulder with barely a whisper of sound as he closed his wings. Edmund glanced around the seemingly deserted street quickly and breathed a sigh of relief when it seemed there was no one present to see the Raven's return.

The inn had been left far behind them as they picked their way through the crowds nearer the docks and eventually found themselves in largely deserted streets lined with decrepit houses and a few half-starved children. Edmund, who was more familiar with this part of Tashbaan than he wanted to be, sensed no danger in the immediate vicinity, but he saw that Peridan was more uneasy even than he had been in the inn.

 _It seems you have sent me an unfailingly frustrating companion, Peter,_ he thought grimly as Peridan stumbled back in surprise at Sallowpad's sudden reappearance. But Peridan was not currently one of his more urgent concerns.

"What have you learned?" he asked Sallowpad, biting his tongue to keep from adding a scathing remark concerning the Raven's endlessly frustrating habit of perching nearly out of sight. Currently Edmund was in no mood to attempt peering at the Bird from the corner of his eye and doing so only served to increase the headache and dizziness he had stubbornly been ignoring since leaving the inn.

Feathers rustled next to his ear as Sallowpad flared his wings slightly for balance and then refolded them complacently—it was not the time to reflect on his more annoying habits. "There are ships in the harbor," he informed them sonorously. "But none sailing for Narrowhaven within the fortnight—due to the fact that there is a blockade of Calormene warships surrounding the Islands. It seems you have set your foot, not in a trap, but upon a hornet's nest." Sallowpad chuckled at his own cleverness, and Edmund chose not to point out that the Calormene blockade had been established _before_ he even set foot in Calormen.

 _Blast!_ If Calormen was willing to reveal their involvement so quickly than it meant Obridesh's plans were progressing at an alarming rate. _First the blockade to isolate them, next the letters revealing my past treachery to shake the people's faith in us, and then…but that is not currently relevant,_ he reminded himself sharply. Obridesh's plans would be stopped, must be stopped, or much more than the Islands might be lost.

"What now?" Peridan asked bluntly, for once seeming to abandon all insistence on formality, and Edmund was immeasurably relieved by that. The persistent headache was becoming nearly unbearable and the decrepit street spun blurrily around him. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, for all the good it did, and forced himself to focus.

 _What now?_ It was a fair enough question, but Edmund was forced to admit he had no real plan. _We still have to get to Narrowhaven, regardless of the blockade, and there's Lucy to consider—she may not have reached the Islands before the circle was closed._

"There is little in Calormen that cannot be bought for the right price," he began, forcing more confidence than he felt. "Now we—"

"Ho there!"

Edmund felt his spirits sink even further as the harshly shouted challenge interrupted his words. _Of course, it's simply too much to ask that we are not intercepted by soldiers at least once._ Sallowpad tightened the grip of his clawed feet slightly to keep his balance, and Edmund gritted his teeth in mingled pain and annoyance. Their chances of continuing on their way unharmed would have been immensely higher had the Raven not been visible to the speaker—who was some little distance behind them, but approaching very rapidly.

To his left Peridan froze, mid step, and stared at him in almost comical panic. "Be silent," Edmund warned him in a whisper he hoped was barely audible, as he turned to face the Calormen.

There were, in fact, three Calormene soldiers, all wearing shirts of mail—with the spikes of helmets protruding from their snowy turbans—and carrying long spears in their right hands, with curved scimitars hanging at their belts. and little round shields on their left forearms.

"What mean you by "ho there"?" Edmund demanded sharply of the leader, forcing his voice into the haughty approximation of a high borne Calormene accent. His voice seemed to give the guards a moment of consternation—they had obviously not expected to hear a Northerner speak with the voice of a Tarkaan—but they were too clever to simply let the two humans (and one large raven) pass.

The leader, whose beard was streaked with grey and whose nose was alarmingly crooked, stepped forward half a pace—gripping his spear in a white knuckled hand. "What strange demon is this, who travels cloaked in the garb of a raven, and perches so forebodingly upon your shoulder?" He added no honourific title, but his uncertainty about Edmund's identity also seemed enough to prevent him from being openly insulting.

Sallowpad croaked indignantly at being called a demon, and Edmund resisted the urge to shake the Bird until his feathers came loose. The soldiers' dark eyes widened at this evidence that the "demon" understood human speech, and the spear heads—previously pointed at the darkening sky—were lowered marginally towards the Northerners.

 _Susan, I will have words with you when I return._ Sending Sallowpad after him had been a characteristically caring gesture, but just then more likely than anything else to be the cause of his death. He risked a quick glance to his left, found Peridan looking terrified and nearly ready to bolt, and briefly entertained the idea of doing just that. The narrow alleyway that branched off to the right seemed promisingly clear of soldiers and led through a maze of dark, twisting streets—it also led past a guard house, three taverns frequented by vicious cutthroats, and eventually ran full into the city wall. The street behind, and in the direction they had previously been traveling, led straight to the house of Lemesh—Edmund's most trusted agent in Tashbaan. Despite its more appealing aspects, running would have to be considered a last resort.

When Edmund returned his gaze to the leader of the guards, it was to find Calormene steel leveled at his heart. That fact did not improve his temper, or lessen the nauseating, dizzying pain in his head.

"Speak!" the fellow demanded, obviously deciding he was not willing to risk falling under a curse on the off chance that the strange figures before him were people of importance, and Edmund glared at him—though the expression took much more effort than he wanted to admit.

Sallowpad chose that moment to drive his wings down in a rush of air and leap skyward, disappearing in a surprisingly short time. The Raven was nothing if not clever, and he had realised that if he remained there was likely to be bloodshed—and not all of it Calormene.

Edmund spread his hands—palms up—in what he hoped would be a placating gesture. "Yon raven was no demon, oh misguided soldier. He was a messenger of Tash, the Inexorable, the Irresistible, and doubtless now bears tidings of your foolishness to his glorious master."

The words left him with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach—that had nothing to do with his headache—however necessary they were. _Forgive me, Aslan, for acknowledging another in Your place,_ he prayed silently, as he always did when it was necessary to speak the name of the Calormene god in a sufficiently devout fashion.

The words, for all they were voiced in the Calormene manner, and with the accent of a Tarkaan, seemed to have little effect. The soldiers shifted uneasily, mail clinking as it was jostled by weapons, and Edmund heard Peridan take a nervous step back.

 _Don't run, whatever you do don't run._ But he couldn't risk speaking the words aloud, and Peridan did not possess Peter's skill at guessing his thoughts. The Archenlander, unaware of Edmund's silent order took another step back—boots scuffing against the dusty street. Edmund did not dare to turn towards him again in warning, despite the undeniable fact that if they ran they would either die or lead the Calormenes to the heart of Narnia's spy network in Tashbaan. Neither of those options were particularly appealing, and he drew in a deep breath, resolving that he must again try to escape their current predicament by talking.

"You would do well to let us pass—else I will be tempted to ignore the grace our Lord Tash has granted you for your age and will surely do you grave harm." Threats scarcely ever worked when the threatening party was outnumbered, but any chance, however slim, was one Edmund was currently willing to take—especially considering he was presently having difficulty deciding which of the blurry, spinning shapes before him he ought to be addressing.

For a moment, it seemed to work—the leader returned his spear to its previous position and stepped back half a pace, motioning for his fellows to do the same. He appeared uneasy, his resolve was wavering in the face of the peculiar strangers who faced him, and in another moment he, and his fellows, might have turned and gone on their way. Then Peridan took another step back, tripped on an uneven stone and fell, sprawling in the street. The hood of his cloak fell back as he picked himself up clumsily, and before either he or Edmund could react the last rays of the evening sun cut through the light clouds and fell, slanting across his fair hair.

The soldiers froze, staring—their eyes flicking between Edmund and Peridan, and the leader seemed to come to a decision. He lowered his spear, hand shaking slightly, and stepped closer.

"Two accursed barbarians accompanied by a demon in the shape of an animal," he remarked, nearly seeming to speak the words to himself. "One who speaks like one of our own—one who holds his tongue and hangs his head like a dog and whose hair is the colour of yellow silk."

 _Wonderful, simply marvelous—must he be poetic before killing us?_ The tendency of the Calormene people to pause for flowery speech—often even in the midst of battle—had always been one of the more puzzling aspects of their culture as far as Edmund was concerned.

Peridan was picking himself up clumsily and readjusting the canvas pack on his back—looking very shamefaced, not that it would do any good—and Edmund spared a moment to wonder if he had fallen on purpose. Peridan was still a largely unknown variable, and his trustworthiness was very much up for debate in Edmund's mind. _It may be best to get him as far from here as possible—trustworthy or not._

"Praise be to Tash, the Inexorable, the Irresistible, that we, oh brothers, have captured the Barbarian Kings!" The lead soldier's voice rose to a high pitch as he addressed his fellows, who waved their spears in a thoroughly ridiculous display of victory—made especially ridiculous by the fact that their leader's statement was categorically incorrect.

Edmund might have laughed, had the situation not been far too serious for that, but he did allow himself a quiet smile—which seemed to lessen the soldiers' jubilant spirits somewhat.

 _They seem to think he's Peter._ That was ridiculous enough, but it should be noted that these particular soldiers had never seen the High King and generally thought most Northerners very alike in any case. _And as for captured…_

The spears would pose a significant threat in combat, but Edmund suspected they would be under orders to capture any supposed Narnian Kings—not to kill them. As long as Peridan did not reveal his true identity there was a chance that at least one of them might escape. It would have to be Peridan, he had no doubts about that. The Archenlander, by his own admission was nearly useless when it came to fighting, and would not stand a chance of holding the soldiers back long enough for Edmund to slip away—even had it not been his duty as king to ensure the safety of those under his protection.

 _Peter will be cross,_ he thought as he narrowed his eyes, swiftly recalling Orieus' training regarding fighting a superior number of enemies bearing spears—while nearly unarmed. The leader favoured his left leg slightly, the man to his right had let his shield drop slightly in his gleeful contemplation of the reward likely being offered for the capture of Northern spies, and a nasty scar twisted across the third man's face from the bridge of his nose to just beneath his left earlobe, leaving his left eye cloudy and sightless.

 _Three._ The lead soldier took another step forward and Edmund blinked, forcing his eyes back into focus and pushing back the relentless pounding of his head. His chance for survival lay solely in his ability to ignore whatever pain he might feel and focus entirely on the current situation.

 _Two._ He risked a glance in Peridan's direction, saw his terrified expression and the apology in his eyes, and nodded. _Run,_ he mouthed silently—hoping Peridan would understand. If he did, he gave no indication of it, and that complicated matters immensely. Edmund found himself missing his brother desperately—Peter would have understood immediately from his expression alone. Not that he would have obeyed, of course, but if Peter had been there neither of them would have needed to run.

 _One._ He ducked as the leader swung the haft of his spear at his head—aiming to stun him but not to do any lasting damage—and kicked him sharply in the left shin. The fellow shrieked, hopped precariously on one foot and lost his balance to fall in a crash of armour. The next man, the one who handled his shield so incautiously sprang forward allowing his shield to swing wide, away from his body as he moved, and by that time Edmund had his knife in his hand. He threw it and it flashed through the air, flipping end over end before burying itself to the hilt in the man's right shoulder.

He cursed under his breath when he realised how far off his aim had been—there was a reason he generally left knife throwing to Lucy and his current dizziness had not improved his accuracy. That however, proved to be the least of his problems as the half-blind soldier advanced on him and Edmund reached for his sword—only to find that he did not currently have one.

 _Idiot! Orieus will have my head—provided I still have one after tonight._ In the daze brought on by dizziness and the thoughtless action and reaction of battle he had forgotten the knife was his only weapon—though in truth his chances would scarcely have been better had he retained the blade. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that Peridan had shown some presence of mind at least and seemed to have made good on the chance provided for his escape. _Good._

The lead soldier had regained his feet by this time, limping heavily and cursing as he abandoned his spear in favour of drawing the curved scimitar that hung from his belt. "King or no, you will pay!"

Poetics seemed to have been abandoned for straightforward threats, which was something of a relief. His head ached, his vision blurred and pulsed with spinning, multi-coloured flashes of light, and now that he was unarmed there was little to be done save to attempt reasoning with his captors.

"I don't suppose you would consider a considerable sum of money to be sufficient payment?" _That may not have been the best thing to say,_ Edmund realised belatedly when the leader's furious scowl did not lessen.

The third soldier, who had succeeded in pulling the knife from his shoulder, swung the haft of his spear sharply at Edmund's legs—catching him across the back of the knees and causing him to stumble forward clumsily as his legs buckled. He supposed that meant no.

"I believe I gave orders that he was not to be harmed." He could not see the man who had spoken, but knew it was not one of the soldiers—the voice held too much command to belong to anyone save a Tarkaan and it sounded far too familiar.

 _Obridesh._ The Tarkaan stepped forward from the gathering shadows of twilight to tower above the wounded man, and Edmund noted with a feeling of dread that the Tarkaan seemed far too alert for someone who should have only regained consciousness moments before. Something had gone terribly wrong with the drug in his wine.

"Your pardon, oh my master," the soldier begged, stumbling back before the furious—and obviously not disgraced Tarkaan—as Obridesh took a threatening step towards him. "I seek only to serve Tash, the Inexorable, The Irresistible, by my actions towards this accursed Northerner."

"It is not for one such as you to make such decisions." The Tarkaan's face appeared as little more than a distant blur hovering some feet above the ground, but Edmund could not mistake the sneer in his voice. "And you; do you seek only to serve Tash by your presence in his city?"

He supposed Obridesh must be addressing him, but was far less interested in answering the Tarkaan's question than Obridesh seemed to suppose he would be. "You poisoned me." _And I should have realised it sooner._ The headache and dizziness were far too convenient to be considered coincidence—especially taking into consideration the gash across his hand from the Tarkaan's blade. Edmund blinked, squinting his eyes and struggling to bring the Calormene's face into focus, and when he managed it at last Obridesh was smiling.

"I was told you valued accuracy in judging a man's character, King Edmund, and yet you are so mistaken about mine. I am not one to coat my blades in poison and seek to fell my enemies through such underhanded means. It is more accurate to say that I have drugged you—you can scarcely fault me for doing so when you sought to do the same to me." He turned away, calling out rough orders to the three soldiers, but Edmund was beyond hearing him as the world spun once.

 _Think! Peridan must have run, which means he has a chance. He'll go to Cair Paravel._ But that was not a particularly comforting thought, considering that Peridan might well be a traitor, and even if he was not he was ill equipped to navigate Tashbaan on his own.

 _Aslan guard me, for I am in your keeping—now as always._ He thought he heard a distant roar, but darkness was pressing against his sight now and seemed to fill the air with a stifling presence as if it were a living being. He did not know when the Calormenes bound his hands, or when he was dragged to his feet—all he knew was the stifling darkness and the sudden fear that swept over him. Fear that gripped all living things in the presence of Tash.

* * *

 _Two years passed after the death of Obresh Tarkaan and his Tarkheena and little seemed to change within the great city of Tashbaan. Little, save that Obridesh their son became grimmer, crueler, and ever more withdrawn from those he had once deemed his friends—and from Emreth his brother. Well it has been written that "he who tastes of power must crave its increase until he is consumed"._

 _The change in his once kind brother troubled Emreth greatly, and, though he sought only to help, he found that he was no longer the most trusted friend and confidant of his brother. Where before Obridesh had sought his counsel and his aid he now scorned it, and also brushed aside all queries concerning his health and the heaviness that seemed to weigh upon his spirit._

 _But, though he was wise and yet stood by his brother in all things, Emreth could not have known the true reason for Obridesh's altered ways—indeed, had he known much that followed might have been greatly changed. However, the course of fate is set in rigid form and cannot be altered by mere mortals, and so Emreth knew nothing and Obridesh turned from him, and from his past kindness until he seemed to be utterly lost._

 _Known to all or to none, the truth does not change, and this is the truth of Obridesh Tarkaan's fall into darkness._

 _In the summer following his beloved mother's death, Obridesh visited the temple of Tash, as it was his custom to do every year, and knelt before the altar to make entreaties unto the Dread god so that the souls of his parents might find peace in the World Beyond._

 _Emreth his brother could not accompany him, for being of Northern blood he was barred from worshiping the god of the Calormenes. And so it was, that when Tash, once more in the form of a great Vulture, appeared and spoke unto Obridesh there was no other present to hear his words._

" _Oh worthy son," spoke Tash, as the Tarkaan fell to his face before him. "At last, here is one worthy of accomplishing this, my greatest work." And the Vulture once more threw down the great knife he held, and it fell at the Tarkaan's feet._

 _Obridesh saw at once that the blade was fearful thing. There was writing upon the blade—which seemed to be fashioned from a dark, volcanic glass—and the words were ancient runes whose meaning had been lost to all save the most learned of scholars. The hilt was of some dark, heavy metal that leeched the warmth from the hand of the Tarkaan when he held it and filled him with such a sense of dread that he wished nothing more than to cast the weapon from him._

 _Tash continued speaking to him then, and told him—as he had told his mother before him—of the plan which was constructed against the land of Narnia. Though the same instructions were given to Obridesh as had been given to the Tarkheena before him, the son proved more clever than the mother and Obridesh did not openly defy the orders of his god._

 _He did not cast the knife from him, but wrapped it securely and tucked it into his robes. He bowed once more before the Vulture and spoke thus._

" _Oh Tash, great and mighty, in your wisdom you have taken from me the lives of my parents and I dare not deny you anything you ask of me, but I beg you answer the question of your loyal servant. I have lost much and will give yet more in your service, but what have I left that you would claim should I fail? For my own life I care little and would willingly die in your service, and as for my power it is a gift from you, oh exalted one, and does not truly belong to me. I have nothing to offer you, oh Dreaded Lord, should I fail in the task you have appointed me."_

 _Witty though the Tarkaan was, Tash was far wiser and saw clearly the true reluctance in the words of his servant. He laughed at his daring in questioning and answered. "Oh fleeting mortal, have you so easily forgotten that I know what is in the hearts of all? You seek to escape the doom of your family and the duty you owe to me, but you cannot do so for I hold your soul in my keeping. You think to save yourself, but hear me now—there is no salvation save in obedience to me."_

" _If you fail me, oh proud Tarkaan, I will take that which is more precious to you than your own life, than your power—I will take the last of your kin, the life of your brother Emreth. He shall find no rest in my lands, for he is not of my people and moreover has denied my power. At a mere thought from me he could be turned to dust even now, but do I as I have bid you and he will be spared—worthless though he is."_

 _Obridesh bowed once more and would not beg as his mother had done, for in his heart he knew his god had well earned the title of Inexorable. No pleas, entreaties, or promises of other power or services to be given would sway the heart of Tash, and Obridesh was wise enough not to waste his effort._

 _He left the temple with a heavy heart and embarked upon a ship bound for the great castle of Cair Paravel—to fulfill at once the orders of his god. But he found the castle empty of all save nobles and servants, for the four rulers he had been sent to seek had ridden to the court of King Lune in Archenland and were beyond his reach._

 _Often in the two years which followed he visited Narnia, but each time he found the High King and King Edmund both absent and his plots, and the orders of his Lord, came to nothing. In that time he grew distant from Emreth his brother and sought to protect him from the wrath of Tash by lessening the affection he felt for him. But Tash knew the cause for the distance between the brothers and saw easily that Obridesh cared as much for Emreth as he ever had—despite his harsh words and the denials he offered._

 _And so it was, that after three years of failed attempts to cause the land of Narnia grave harm Tash had utterly lost patience with his servant, and determined that he should be punished in accordance with his failures. In the midst of summer, a great Vulture rose to circle the skies above Tashbaan and in his shadow all were filled with fear. The Vulture turned then to the South and flew on wings swift and Inexorable as the approach of death, until he came upon the Tarkaan's brother, Emreth who had ridden out alone._

 _The son of Obresh did not fear the Vulture who circled above him, for he held no dread of Tash, but his horse was filled with terror as the Creature's shadow fell upon him and he bolted—even as the Vulture swooped from the sky to slash with cruel talons at the rider upon his back._

 _When his brother's horse returned to the stables of his palace, rider less and bloodied, fear gripped the heart of the Tarkaan and he rode out at once with the best of his trackers to seek his brother. They came upon Emreth some leagues to the south of Tashbaan's towering walls and he lay as one dead—bleeding and broken upon the rocks at the foot of a great cliff._

 _Obridesh wept to see his beloved brother thus stricken and bore him back to the city in mourning—for though Emreth yet breathed it was clear to all who saw him that he must surely die of his wounds before a day had passed. Great was the grief of Obridesh Tarkaan and terrible was his fury at Tash who had exacted such punishment upon him at his failing._

 _He returned to the Great Temple of Tash and did not now bow before the altar, but stood to face his god and threw down the knife that Tash had given him._

" _Oh terrible and bloody god," chided the Tarkaan. "You have done me great disservice, you who I have striven to serve. It was not by any will of mine that my plots against the Kings of Narnia have been foiled these three years. They are protected by strong magics and it may be that their god, the demon Lion they call Aslan, has himself been set in opposition against me. You have wronged me Tash, and in so doing have lost my service—for you have taken from me the last of those I value, and I have no will now to live or to serve you."_

 _Tash laughed once more at the daring of the Tarkaan who stood so proudly before him, but answered his accusations with cunning cruelty. "Obridesh Tarkaan, son of Obresh Tarkaan, hear me now, oh foolish child. You chide at me and think to set yourself above me, but have you forgotten that your brother yet lives? If you will but swear yourself to me once more I will tell you how you may accomplish all I have asked and save your brother from death before he has passed beyond your reach forever."_

 _With a cry Obridesh's pride fled from him and he dropped to his knees before the altar. "Oh my kind lord, forgive the words of your servant spoken in anguish. I beg you, tell me how I may serve you, and how my brother may yet be saved."_

 _And Tash spoke, bidding him take up the knife once more and instructing him in all he must do if he wished his brother saved._

 **Originally Lucy's chapter was scheduled to be posted instead of this one, but this one was closer to being finished and easier for my dizzy brain to deal with, so Lucy's chapter will follow on Wednesday (hopefully). Leave me a review if you can! Thank you all for readding and being enormously supportive.**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	8. What Became of Lucy

**Barely posting this on time, but it still counts! Turns out typing with one hand is more difficult than I anticipated. Typos most likely abound, but I will do my best to fix them in the next couple of days-mainly I just wanted to get this chapter up since you have all been so wonderfully encouraging!**

 **NarniaGirl: Great to hear from you again; I am glad you are still enjoying this story! Don't worry about always being able to review (don't get me wrong, I love reviews!) But if you don't get a chance to leave one every chapter that is perfectly alright :-) Thank you for your very kind words about my writing; I try to do as well as I can :-) And also for your good wishes on my recovery!**

 **Aslan's Daughter: I am feeling a bit better now, thank you for your good wishes! I'm glad the description of the knife was to your satisfaction-it took a surprising amount of work to make it seem real to me, so I am glad you could see it from my descriptions. And yes, I do have quite a bit planned for Obridesh in later chapters...**

 **Also, it is interesting you should mention Miriam...you'll have to wait and see!**

 **Guest: Thank you again for your immensely kind words! I am glad I managed to capture Edmund's character as it gave me a good bit of trouble in the last chapter. Glad you are still enjoying the story and thank you for reviewing!**

She existed in darkness—tossed on unkind waves like a piece of the debris that surrounded her. Hearing and sensation passed beyond the realm of consciousness as the sea buffeted her—seeming like a living thing and tossing her to and fro as a child might toss a ball.

Then the waves calmed, and she drifted for an interminable age—no longer with stiffly frozen limbs—until slowly thought, hearing and sense returned, and Lucy found herself drawing in a gasping breath with aching lungs and coughing the salt water back into the sea.

She floated in water that as no longer chilled and angry, but was warm as the gentle surf breaking against the beach of Cair Paravel in high summer. The sea was her friend now, the sound of waves breaking against old, worn rocks was her lullaby, and the water on which she floated felt like the softest bed she could ever have imagined—and Lucy slept.

 _11_ _th_ _. Greenroof, 1012—Sixthday_

When Lucy woke it was to find that she was laying on warm sand and the sea was lapping against the shore a few feet to her left (she knew this because she very accustomed to being near the sea and could hear the gentle sound of waves breaking against the sandy beach). She was reluctant to open her eyes for she felt very comfortable lying where she was and knew that once she did open her eyes Susan would doubtless be hovering over her—ready to scold her about the state of her gown.

 _I must have fallen asleep on the beach again,_ she thought blearily, stretching the cramped muscles of her legs and burying her toes in warm sand. It was odd that her body ached, and she cast her mind back, trying to remember if there was a reason for it. _Surely I can't have fallen from the cliffs._ If she had there would have been a commotion, running feet, Peter shouting her name, but she did remember a vague sensation of falling.

Still, the sand was comfortable beneath her back, the sun was warm on her face, and the sound of the sea was so peaceful that the gap in her memory did not trouble her overmuch. She wiggled her toes, giggling as the sand tickled the bottoms of her feet, and borrowed more comfortably into her sandy bed. She might have fallen asleep again in mere moments had it not been for the answering, and rather shrill giggle, that emanated from the water to her left.

There was a splash and warm salt water sprayed across her face as she heard another giggle.

"Mummy, I think the strange creature is waking up!" a very young voice exclaimed, as more water showered over Lucy's head and shoulders.

She smiled, yawned, and cracked her eyelids open slightly to stare up at the azure dome of sky stretching above her. _It would hardly be possible to keep sleeping on such a beautiful day,_ she thought contentedly, no longer feeling particularly sleepy at any rate. The voice, combined with the splashing water, left her with no doubt that it was one of the Merfolk who had been watching for her to wake.

Once her eyes had adjusted to the brightness of the mid-day sun, she pushed herself up on one elbow and turned towards the voice. A Sea Girl, of about nine or ten years with a round, slightly blue face and a tangled mop of kelp green hair was splashing merrily about in the shallow water a yard or so off shore. She looked rather startled when she saw Lucy watching her and dipped her head beneath the shallow water—sending another spray of water over Lucy as her fish tail slapped against the surface of the sea in alarm.

Lucy realised then that she couldn't possibly be on the beach below Cair Paravel—the Merfolk she was used to swimming with did not have blue skin, and she only knew one elderly Sea Woman who had such dark green hair.

"It's alright," she called after the girl, hoping her voice would not frighten her more. "Please don't swim away!" Now that she knew she was not at Cair Paravel she very much did not want to be alone until she could be certain something terrible had not happened.

The green head emerged cautiously from beneath the water a few yards further off shore and Lucy smiled at her. "Mummy!" the Girl called again, still seeming rather alarmed. "It can talk!"

A second head emerged from the water—this one crowned by a tangle of greenish-brown hair—and an older Sea Woman smiled kindly at Lucy, as she wrapped an arm around her daughter's shoulders.

"Of course she can talk, Maera," she scolded gently. "She's a Daughter of Eve."

The Girl, Maera, splashed back towards the shore—clutching the folds of her mother's kelp gown in one hand—and staring at Lucy with wide, amber eyes. "A Daughter of Eve?" she asked, shrilly curious, and Lucy smiled at her.

"My name's Lucy," she explained, keeping her voice low so as not to frighten the child again. "I'm sorry I startled you—I often go swimming with Merfolk and thought you must have been one of my friends at first."

Maera regarded her seriously before a smile flashed across her face and she giggled again. "That's alright! We can be friends now, and then you won't be scary!"

Her mother gave a long-suffering sigh and shook her head, though she too was smiling. "Lucy did you say your name was?" she asked, brow furrowing with thought. "You must be named after the Narnian queen at Cair Paravel."

Lucy frowned, wondering if she should tell them that she wasn't merely named after the Narnian queen. They seemed very kind, and she had never known Merfolk to bear any animosity towards her, or her family, but she still didn't know quite where she was.

She remembered now that she had been sailing for the Lone Islands—she had left her cabin to take a walk above decks, she had spoken with Captain Rhegus, but after that she couldn't quite remember. If they had reached the Lone Islands safely then why was she on an unknown beach—alone save for strange Sea People?

 _I do so hate keeping secrets,_ Lucy thought regretfully as she sat up the rest of the way, and brushed most of the sand from her tangled hair.

"Where am I?" she asked the older Sea Woman—blinking away the strange dizziness that swept over her when she moved. _What ever is the matter with me?_

The Sea Woman shook her head and her face flushed a darker blue. "You're on Felimath, young one. Nor are you the first to be washed ashore here—my sister told me of a group of Galman merchants who she found the day before yesterday. It's the work of pirates, you see—they steal ships and throw the crew overboard. We save those we can," she paused and shook her head sadly. "But some have perished beneath the waves before my sisters and I can reach them. We found you in a tangle of wreckage and brought you to shore to recover."

 _Wreckage._ That sounded familiar—she remembered burning lifeboats and the acrid, smoke thick air filling her lungs. _The Hyaline!_ That was it—they had been attacked—the Galman ship had crashed into them. She had fallen, she could remember now the brief flash of terror that filled her as she plummeted towards the sea. _But where is everyone else? Surely I can't be the only one who made it off the ship._

Lucy thought her face must have paled considerably because the Sea Woman drifted closer to the shore, her own face displaying very motherly concern.

"Are you alright, young one?" she asked gently, motioning for Maera to be silent when the girl opened her mouth to speak. "You've gone quite pale—nearly blue enough to be one of us."

Lucy nodded miserably, wishing she knew if she could trust the seeming kindness of her rescuers. Her first instinct was always to trust (else she would scarcely have followed a strange Faun home for tea), but her siblings had spent many years trying to make her use proper sense, rather than instinct, when trusting those she met.

Edmund would say she did not know enough about these Merfolk to trust them yet—he would likely add that many evil things seem fair at first, and (seeing as he spoke from experience) Lucy would find that a very valid argument against blind trust.

Susan would warn her, yet again, about the dangers of befriending anyone who may only be interested in her rank as Queen. Susan was nearly as bad as Edmund when it came to trusting—though her reasons were based on a fear of Lucy's kindness and generous nature being taken advantage of. Lucy had to admit Susan had been right in the past—there had been more than one Faun who, having heard of her friendship with Tumnus, traveled to Cair Paravel seeking more favour than he had earned.

Peter— _what would Peter do?_ —a moment later he found herself smiling at the foolish question. Peter would not have worried about betrayal. He was confident in his ability to defend himself if anyone attempted treachery. _Then again,_ she reflected ruefully, _Peter wouldn't be in this situation._

"Are you alright dear?" prompted the Sea Woman when Lucy did not respond to her previous query, drifting as close to shore as she could while still remaining mostly submerged in the blue water.

Lucy forced a smile, though now that she remembered how she came to be here her head had begun to ache. "Was there anyone else?" _I have to know what happened to Rhegus and the others._ "From my ship, I mean?"

The Sea Woman frowned and pressed her green tinted lips together in a thin, line. "Your ship? Young one, we found no ship, only you—drifting amid too little debris to account for more than a small boat."

"But I'm not looking for the ship," Lucy protested desperately. "I'm looking for the crew!" Lucy did not often lose her temper—most Narnians were unaware that she even possessed one—but her head throbbed with pain, her whole body ached, and, combined with the fact that she was alone in the company of strangers, these circumstances were enough to make her voice far sharped than she intended.

"Perhaps one of my sisters has found your friends," the Woman suggested, frown fading to be replaced by a sympathetic expression. Maera, who had splashed away to chase something that Lucy could not see beneath the water, resurfaced in a spray of water—still grinning exuberantly—and sent a wave of sea water crashing into Lucy.

"Maera!" scolded the older Woman, and Lucy was certain that—had she been human—she would have put her hands on her hips in an almost perfect imitation of Susan.

The flash of annoyance Lucy had felt moments before faded just as swiftly as it had come, and she smiled at Maera as she shook most of the water from her hair. Maera's mother sighed again and propelled her daughter further out to sea with a firm hand on her shoulder.

"Go and play, little urchin. Perhaps you can find one of Tritus' daughters to exhaust with your boundless energy."

Maera contorted her face in to an expression which Lucy was certain must have been a common one on her _own_ face when confronted with the similar tactics employed by Susan. She gazed up at her mother with impossibly wide eyes—the perfect model of innocent and guileless pleading—but the older Sea Woman seemed as remarkably unimpressed by the feat as any mother might be expected to be.

"Go on, perhaps our visitor will feel like playing with you later. Now off you go, little imp." The final words were accompanied with an affectionate splash of water in Maera's direction and the Girl at last turned with a final indignant huff and swam away with a great deal of graceless, and unnecessary splashing.

Lucy couldn't help smiling as she watched her go, though she felt slightly wistful as well. How long had it been since she felt as truly carefree as Maera—free from duty and expectation.

"Now then," the Sea Woman said with a smile as she drifted closer to shore. "My name is Amathia, and perhaps you, your majesty, would tell me how I may best aid you?"

Lucy stared at her in shock, but she also couldn't deny the feeling of immense relief at being recognised. _Now I don't have to lie, though I suppose she might still be dangerous._ Still, she couldn't truly entertain the notion that Amathia meant her any harm. There was no hint of evil in her smile, and nothing that made Lucy feel even remotely uneasy. Edmund would likely still have warned her to be cautious, but the Merfolk had asked nothing of her and offered her no kindness that might have been considered a bride. _Surely not all the kindness of strangers can come from evil or greed. Aslan would not allow His world to be so tainted by darkness._

She found herself smiling at the Sea Woman, and pushed away utterly any lingering misgivings she would have been urged to feel by others. _There is no danger here._

"I need to find my crew." She straightened her shoulders, brushed the last of the sand from her hair, and did her best to straighten her rumpled dress. "You mentioned there were Galmans who had been brought ashore—might my people have landed near them?"

Amathia seemed to consider the question for a moment, dipping her hands beneath the gentle waves and seeming to listen to the voice of the sea as the water ebbed and flowed around her webbed fingers. Lucy watched her curiously and wondered if the sea really did speak to her.

The rivers of Narnia were alive with Naiads and Water gods, but she had always considered the sea to be different. Merfolk were not the spirits of the sea—they merely lived in it as Fauns, Satyrs, and other Narnians lived in the woods—but perhaps that did not prevent the sea itself from being alive. She wondered if the spirit of the Sea would be like the River gods, or if it would be too vast for her to comprehend—if such a thing even existed.

 _Perhaps Amathia could tell me. I do so want to know!_ She was just opening her mouth to ask, when the Sea Woman withdrew her hands from the water and sighed.

"I cannot be sure if it has anything to do with your people, but there is some great disturbance along the southern coast. It is not far from here, your majesty, if you wish to seek your people there." She looked up at Lucy expectantly, as if expecting her to jump back into the sea and swim halfway around the island.

Lucy actually considered doing so for a moment. She was a reasonably strong swimmer (though Susan could swim farther and more gracefully) and usually loved to throw herself into the waves with an enthusiasm her elder sister viewed as reckless, but her head and limbs still ached from her fall and subsequent buffeting in this very sea.

"Is it far along the coast line? Could I walk there?" She wondered with a vague sense of embarrassment if that was the wrong sort of question to ask someone who did not possess legs, but rather than seeming offended Amathia only considered the query for a moment.

"I believe it could be done before the Sun sinks below the sea," she answered with a grave nod. "But I must ask your pardon that I cannot accompany you properly on land. I must swim some distance from shore where the water is deep enough that I need not risk becoming mired in the sand when the waves recede."

Lucy nodded, assuring her that she should consider her own safety above all else, Amathia instructed her regarding her direction of travel, and Lucy found herself setting out on her trek. She decided almost immediately that it simply wouldn't do to continue walking so near the water. The sand was deep and very fine, and she kept slipping when she tried to walk. And, seeing as she had been barefoot when she fell from the _Hyaline_ the soles of her feet had no protection against the jagged edges of the shells hidden in the sand.

The sea was to her right, but to her left was a low embankment of pale clay that led up to a flat, grassy land which appeared perfect for walking barefoot across. It took a good bit of breathless scrambling and a few harmless tumbles (the clay was soft and chalky, and it kept giving way beneath her weight as she tried to climb up the embankment), but at last she succeeded in reaching the slightly higher grassland.

Lucy paused and caught her breath in wonder—she had never before seen a land so flat and quiet. Most of Narnia consisted of wooded slopes, and plunging, misty valleys through which rivers ran—and no matter where she traveled there were always an abundance of Talking Animals, Dryads, Fauns, and the occasional tribe of secretive Black Dwarves or loquacious and jolly Red Dwarves. Narnia was a merry land, full of life and variety, and Lucy loved it with all her heart—but that did not lessen the rush of joy she felt when gazing out across the silent, peaceful meadow before her.

A few sheep dotted the grassy expanse, but they were a good distance away, and Lucy doubted they were Talking Sheep anyway. Aside from those silent grazers she seemed to be alone, save for the few gulls whirling high in the light blue sky above her.

The ground was soft and cool beneath her bare toes as she walked, and there seemed to be very few stones to cause her grief. Lucy drew in deep lungfuls of the warm, sea scented air and felt herself relax. She knew that she ought to worry—after all, she was shipwrecked on a largely deserted island and still couldn't be sure if the rest of her crew were there too—but it was impossible for her to feel anything except a peaceful warmth as she continued her trek along the edge of the embankment.

 _Would it be so terrible to stay here always?_ she wondered, tilting her head back to stare up at the sky as she walked. _It's so very beautiful, and I can't remember when I last felt so free._ The carefree nature she had earlier felt envious towards Maera because of seemed to sweep her up in its embrace now. There were no dusty books, no shoes, or ladies in waiting, and no seemingly insurmountable challenges facing her.

 _I do love Narnia, and my family of course, and my people, but would it do very much harm to stay here a bit longer? If Rhegus and the others are here than I'm sure they're safe and mightn't they have a lovely time too?_ She looked to her left, away from the sea and out over the gently sloping land of the island that stretched away in waves of knee high green grass.

"Amathia!" She leant over the embankment and called out to the distant speck of green against the blue water that marked the Sea Woman's location—it seemed she had stopped to wait for Lucy to catch up. "I'm going to explore the island—I'll meet you on the southern shore tomorrow!"

She barely waited to see one of Amathia's long, blue arms wave at her in what she took as acknowledgement before she was turning back towards the open grasslands.

"Your majesty, wait!" But by the time Amathia's call reached her, Lucy was already running.

The light breeze was cool against her face and tugged gently at her hair as she ran—finding that it seemed marvelously easy to cover a great deal of distance and scarcely realise it. It was a wonderful feeling and she laughed aloud, feeling that it was somehow easier to laugh with sheer joy when there was no one to hear or question her.

She was thoroughly winded but still exuberant with freedom when she stopped at last and threw herself down to lie panting among the softly waving blades of grass. She lay there for some time, staring up at the grass that arched above her like a vaulted ceiling, and thinking of nothing in particular. It was very peaceful, but Lucy found at last (as always happened after she ran) that she was dreadfully thirsty. Presently she sat up and looked about her, wondering if there might be stream nearby.

The sea was a distant blue line in the direction she had come, and she knew there was no fresh water back along the path her steps had made through the grass. Before her the land sloped down gently for another few hundred yards, and at the bottom of the slight valley created by the slope she saw a cluster of trees. If she sat very still and listened intently Lucy thought she could just barely hear the sound of running water.

She got to her feet, a little stiffly after running so far and then lying so very still, and made her way much more slowly down the gentle slope. The peace of the place had not diminished, but she felt strangely wistful now—almost sorrowful.

 _How odd—I was so pleased by the thought of being alone and exploring, and now I have the strangest feeling that I'd rather someone here with me._ She paused to look back over her shoulder at the distant sea, wondering if Amathia was worried about her. _I'm lonely!_ she realised suddenly, with a feeling of great surprise.

Lucy was not used to being lonely—she was so rarely alone that it had never been much of a concern for her. Still, it had been her choice to go off on her own and explore the island, and it _had_ been marvelous.

"I suppose I'll go on and look for the stream," she said aloud, almost hoping the sound of her own voice would make her feel less alone. "Then I'll go back and try to find the others."

She was in amongst the trees now and the sound of running water grew steadily louder until she pushed her way through a tangle of wild rhododendron and saw the source of the sound. It was not a stream at all, but rather a spring that bubbled up merrily from between two mossy boulders and trickled into a small, almost perfectly circular pool that reflected the leaves and sky above. It was a beautiful sight, but what made her breath catch in her throat and her heart give a great leap of joy was the huge, golden Lion who lay beside the pool.

Forgetting the urgency she had felt to find water Lucy ran to Him and threw her arms around His neck. "Aslan!"

The Lion chuckled and caught her between His two front paws in a strong, unimaginably comforting embrace. Lucy felt her earlier sense of peace return to her, only it was magnified beyond anything she had felt before. "Welcome, dear one," said the Lion quietly, and Lucy buried her face against His mane.

"Oh Aslan! I'm so very glad you're here! I-I think I was lonely." Lucy found that she was rather embarrassed by the admission and was very glad that her face was hidden in the golden fur—although she was certain Aslan knew anyway.

"Do you understand better now, Daughter of Eve?"

"Understand?" She sat next to Him, leaning against His side and staring down into the sky reflected on the smooth surface of the pool. "You mean understand why I wanted to go exploring on my own and then didn't want to be alone?"

"Yes."

Lucy shook her head. "No, I don't think I do. It was so wonderful to be free, to run through the grass with no destination and no necessity for doing so, but then I couldn't help seeing how beautiful everything was and realising how no one was here to see it with me. And now—oh bother! I've worried my friends, haven't I, Aslan?"

"Look into the pool, dear one," Aslan told her kindly, nudging her forward with His nose until she sat at the very edge of the still water. "Tell me, what do you see?"

Lucy blinked confused, and stared down. Her own face looked back up at her, brows furrowed in a slight frown and hair a wild tangle—above her arched the green of the trees with patches of blue visible between the leave. "Myself, and the sky," she answered, confused and feeling that surely she was missing something.

Aslan breathed out, long and slow, and His breath rippled the pool's surface—sending flashes of colour dancing outwards. "Look again."

And when she looked again she did not see her own face, or the trees and sky above. She saw a man in Calormene clothes kneeling before a terrible altar made of heavy black stone and there were tears streaming down his face.

She saw Cair Paravel—its outer wall hung with the black banners of mourning—and Susan standing tall and proud beside a man whose face she could not quite make out.

Then the scene shifted, and she saw Peter sitting before an unfamiliar hearth, shoulders slumped, and head dropped forward into his hands as if in sorrow or great exhaustion. Brickle hovered solicitously at his elbow, and seemed to be speaking in an animated fashion, but Peter was taking no notice of him. She wanted to call out to him, to offer comfort, but before she could open her mouth to speak he was gone.

Next Rhegus' face flashed across the still water. He looked worn and exhausted, his wild red hair in an even greater state of disarray than usual and his sun darkened face lined with worry as he spoke with a very old man who stood hunched next to him. Lucy wondered what it was that made him frown so when he seemed almost perpetually merry.

Then she saw Edmund, lying on a low sofa with a richly embroidered coverlet pulled up to his chin. His face was pale and bruised, and he didn't look quite the same as she remembered somehow, but before she could begin to decide what was different, the scene rippled and broke apart.

There was a sound like shattering glass and she saw something dark and almost metallic breaking against stone. The shards fell to the ground with faint tinkling sounds and vanished when they struck it.

The water rippled once more, dispersing the images and she was staring down at her own face again and could see Aslan's face reflected above her. She turned back to him, shaking her head to clear it of the strange images, and frowned. "I'm afraid I still don't understand, Aslan."

"No," agreed the Lion, sounding as though He were smiling. "But you shall in good time. I have not come to scold you, Lucy, but to show you what you must see. Remember what you have seen, and when the time comes you will understand. Now, tell Me, what do you think of this island?"

"It's lovely! I could almost wish to stay here always," Lucy admitted with no trace of embarrassment this time. "But, I have worried my friends, haven't I?"

"What you did was necessary so that I might show what you needed to see," he answered gravely. "But there was another purpose to your escape from duty as well. Do you now feel differently about what you sought to escape? Do you miss those you were so eager to leave behind before?"

"Yes." She smiled at the realisation. "Is that why I needed to get away? So that I could know how much I would miss everyone else if I was alone?"

Aslan chuckled and dipped His head forward to drink from the pool. He raised his muzzle a moment later and splashed her with water droplets as He shook them from his whiskers. Lucy laughed and danced back a step to avoid being soaked. After all, it wasn't as though Aslan was always serious.

"It is, and also so that you might know peace and joy, even if only for a few moments. Do you feel prepared now, to return to your duties with an eager heart?"

Lucy considered for a moment, remembering first the freedom and joy she felt when running across the meadows and lying in the tall grass, and then remembering the strange longing for the companionship of other living Creatures that had followed. "Yes," she said at last, feeling that it was far more true than it had ever been before. "Yes, I think I'm ready now. Thank you, Aslan for showing me that."

He purred and rested his still damp muzzle atop her head. "Remember, dear heart. Remember what you have seen." And then He was gone, and Lucy found herself standing alone beside the pool, listening to the merry bubbling of the water, but feeling a certainty of purpose that had been lacking before.

She knelt beside the pool and drank her fill of the sweet water, before rising and turning her face resolutely towards the south. Her crew was waiting, she was certain of that, and she had a duty to fulfill.

 **I hope I did alright with this chapter! Also, read the bit about the pool carefully...some of those things will be VERY important later ;-). Review if you can, I love you reviews and you all make my day when you share your thoughts! Also, this hasn't been beta read yet, so please excuse any minor errors. I will be posting an updated, beta read version with grammatical corrections in the near future.**

 **Thanks so much for reading!**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	9. Honesty Over Flattery

**Okay, here's the proper chapter at last! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed-I really apologise for the delay with this chapter and hopefully my update schedule will be back on track for weekly chapters.**

 **Aslan's Daughter: Thank you for your reviews! I love getting feedback of all sorts, but what I especially like know is if my characterisation is consistent and if the plot is solid and free from any major holes or mistakes. :-)**

 **NarniaGirl: Glad the water scenes got your attention! Sorry for the delay in updating this time and I hope you enjoy this chapter as well. :-)**

 _8th. of Greenroof, 1012-Third-day_

"Queen Susan! Queen Susan!"

Susan put down her silver backed hairbrush with a stifled sigh and abandoned her attempts to tame her hair into some semblance of order as Jala—the Birch Dryad who she entrusted with most matters that did not require her direct intervention—burst through the doors to her chambers.

"What is it, Jala?" She examined her reflection in the looking glass critically before directing her haze towards Jala's reflected face. The Dryad looked even more tired than she did herself and Susan quite correctly surmised that her servant had gotten even less sleep than she had.

Jala paused in the doorway, surprise at her queen's disheveled appearance temporarily replacing her agitation. "Queen Susan, are you quite well?"

As a matter of fact, Susan did not feel well at all. _Not that my health is currently relevant, but is it really that obvious?_ Looking back at her reflected face she was forced to admit she did look ill. Her eyes were accented by dark circles, her hair seemed hopelessly tangled, and her skin appeared nearly grey in the early dawn light. _I must sleep._

"I am well, thank you." _I don't have another choice._ "What did you need me for?"

Before Jala could answer a flushed, and panting faun burst through the door—Susan recognised him as one of the guards assigned to Duke Tirnan for the duration of his stay, and groaned inwardly.

"What is it, Tiberius?"

The faun froze in his tracks, dropped a quick bow, and shuffled his hoofs in desperate agitation. "The Duke, your grace, it's terrible! I fear there'll be murder done by the end of this!"

"Murder of who?" _If it is likely to be Tarkaan Areesh, who am I to prevent it?_ She regretted the thought almost immediately and dismissed the rush of satisfaction she felt in imagining that particular circumstance as utterly unseemly and unbefitting her status as queen. It would not do for her guest to murder each other beneath her roof.

"I-I don't rightly know," stammered Tiberius. "But there was talk of throwing someone off the pier, and he's in a terrible fury—pacing his chambers and shouting at all his servants."

 _Why is he coming to me? It seems more a question of safety and diplomacy, which means Edmund ought to go and—Edmund, who is likely in Tashbaan by now. What am I supposed to do?_ She was rather proud, however, of how little of her inner turmoil was reflected in her expression. _By Aslan's grace I_ can _find the strength to go on._

"Jala, what was it you needed?" _Gather information, then make a plan—one step at a time until it's over._ She drew in a deep, steadying breath, gathered up her hairbrush, and resumed attacking the tangles in her hair.

"The library, your majesty—Sundance requests you attend him at once." Jala wrinkled her delicate nose in disgust. "He seems to be in quite a state, and refused to listen to reason when I told him you were likely to be otherwise engaged."

Sundance was a very elderly, incredibly bad-tempered badger, whose name could scarcely have been more ironic even if it had been bestowed on a Black Dwarf. He was also the court librarian, a good friend of Edmund's, and a source of endless annoyance for Susan. His demand for her presence was not entirely unexpected, considering he usually summoned Edmund to the library for various, unnecessary reasons multiple times a week. Edmund, at least in Susan's opinion, indulged the old badger's whims far too graciously—especially considering that the librarian ordinarily required nothing more urgently than for Edmund to fetch him a book from another room.

 _Take a breath, don't let your annoyance show—be a queen._ "Very well. Jala, tell Sundance I will be with him presently. Tiberius, please convey this message to Duke Tirnan: Queen Susan requires his presence in the main library half an hour hence and it will be considered gravely offensive if he is not in good humour upon his arrival. Tell him I wish to speak to him concerning important matters." _Which means I must think of something to discuss with him that will calm his temper—regardless of the cause—without giving him false hope as to the state of his suit._

Jala curtsied with the grace inherent to her people—a grace which Susan was stubbornly not envious of—and glided out of the room in a swirl of pale green silk. Tiberius bowed much less gracefully, nearly tripped over his own hooves as he shuffled backwards towards the door, and at last pulled the door shut behind him.

Susan dropped her aching head into her hands with a sigh of abject weariness. _Am I never to get a moment's rest?_ But she had very little time to feel sorry for herself and found herself rather disgusted by her own weakness.

"You are a queen," she told herself sternly, raising her face from her hands and hastily gathering her hair up into a thick braid. "You might start acting like one—rather than moping about all the things you cannot have." Her reflection stared back with exhausted determination as she pinned back a lock of hair that had evaded her attempts to capture it in the braid and smoothed a wrinkle from the sleeve of her gown. _Now at least I look the part._ Her mask of control and grace was firmly back in place now, and only someone accustomed to her mannerisms and moods would have seen the weariness that hid behind her façade of strength.

The fragile mask lasted nearly a full minute, before the illusion—at least that of grace—shattered abruptly. She had managed to leave her room without mishap, despite her exhaustion, and was just entering the corridor which lead to the library when she collided abruptly with another figure hurrying in the opposite direction.

The phrase that sprang to her mind as she found herself tumbling clumsily to the floor was anything but queenly, and it was with some difficulty that she managed not to speak the words aloud. Peter would doubtless have found it incredibly amusing, but Susan doubted that her Galman suitor would share her brother's opinion.

She picked herself up with what little dignity she could muster, smoothed the fabric of her dress back into order, and forced a smile that was not in the least heartfelt as she faced the young man before her.

The Galman was tall, taller than Peter even, with broad shoulders, a disheveled mop of fair, sun streaked hair, and bright green eyes that regarded her with amusement. He seemed to be laughing at her clumsiness, though somehow the expression of amusement that tugged at the corners of his mouth managed to be charming, rather than degrading.

"Your majesty." He inclined his head in a slight bow, shifting the heavy book he carried from his right hand to his left as he took her hand and kissed it gallantly.

Susan felt her cheeks flush—with what she told herself sharply must have been embarrassment—and collected her manners sufficiently to curtsey in response. They had met once, barely spoken beyond the requirements of formality, and Lord Gale had so far seemed barely more than a non-entity at court— _and of course I would have to go and destroy what little hope I have of avoiding at least one of my suitors by making a fool of myself._

"Lord Gale, I must beg your pardon, I was not attending to my path." He had yet to release her hand and was still regarding her with the type of bright-eyed curiosity that ordinarily made her brothers scowl and reach unconsciously for their weapons.

"The fault is mine, your grace," Gale responded calmly, leaning against the corridor wall with a nonchalance that seemed to border on boredom—though Susan did not miss the fact that he was completely blocking her path. Of course, she could turn and go back the way she had come, but there was no way to do so without seeming unforgivably rude. He held up the book he carried, showing her the heavily embossed cover. "I must admit that I was reading and also neglecting to notice where I was going—or whom I was in danger of knocking over. I find Narnian history quite fascinating."

Susan squinted at the book, straining her eyes to read the gold letters in the dim light of the corridor. _The Life of Gale, King of Narnia._

"I'm named after him, King Gale I mean." Lord Gale seemed strangely unaware that he was continuing to block Susan's path and she felt herself becoming rather annoyed. The endless list of things which required her attention that day had not decreased simply because she had collided with a visitor.

"My mother was Narnian, you see," he continued, looking down at the book with a thoughtful expression. "A faun called Metelus gave me this book to read—he suggested I might like to know the story of the man I'm named after. I believe he was your brother King Edmund's tutor at one point?" The green eyes snapped up suddenly from the book and he frowned, brows furrowing in a sudden expression of consternation. "Forgive me, Queen Susan, I am being quite rude and preventing you from continuing your walk."

He bowed again, somewhat stiffly and turned to glance around the corridor. Susan could see his obvious confusion and refrained from sighing with difficultly—she had seen that expression countless times before when Edmund had become so engrossed in reading while walking that he had gotten lost.

 _Just go, he's apologised for keeping you—he can find his own way back to wherever it is he's going, and you have no duty to help him._ "You seem confused, my lord. Perhaps I can be of some assistance?" _What have I done?_

"I was looking for the library." His sun darkened face flushed a bright shade of red. "But I seem to be lost."

"I was on my way to the library myself," Susan heard herself say as she silent cursed the impulse that made her speak. "I would be happy to show you the way, Lord Gale." _What am I doing?_ She was accustomed to spending her time dodging the advances of suitors, avoiding them as much as possible while remaining distantly polite, but now she found herself here—offering to walk with one as far as the library. Speaking easily without the feeling of stifling duty that usually characterised her conversations outside of those with her siblings. It was strange, but somehow not unpleasant to accept his proffered arm and walk beside him down the narrow corridor towards the library.

"Queen Susan, I feel I must be honest with you."

Susan felt her eyebrows rise incredulously. _Honesty—from a suitor—that is nearly too much to be believed. Of course, he could merely be preparing to make the usual dishonest declaration of love after spending a mere five minutes in my presence._ Susan knew quite a number of noblewomen from Archenland, Calormen, and the Islands who would have been delighted by the constant stream of adoring declarations that she found herself enduring with barely controlled annoyance. She knew she ought to be flattered by the admiring glances of men, by the words whispered in her ear on dancefloors, and by the gifts that funded half of Narnia's army, but Susan was far too practical for that. She saw the gestures of devotion provided by visiting nobles for what they were—empty gestures, devoid of any true feeling or affection.

"Your grace?" The Galman lord at her side paused, brow furrowing again in seeming concern as he glanced at her. She realised belatedly that he had been speaking and she, too lost in her own thoughts, had failed to respond.

"Once more it seems I must beg your pardon, my lord." _What in Aslan's name is wrong with me?_ "I must admit that I was not attending to your words."

Gale smiled, a brief flash of amusement that made Susan want to smile in return, regardless of her embarrassment. "A common enough occurrence, your majesty, and I must apologise for my insolence in speaking to you as I find that I must. You see, your majesty, I have no wish to marry you."

That was certainly unexpected, though Susan felt a surge of relief which nearly obscured her surprise. Somehow, she would have been disappointed to find that Gale was no different than the other suitors who habitually hovered around her—clamouring for her hand in marriage.

"I hope I do not offend you with my bluntness," Gale continued, speaking with a strange, rushed urgency. "But I sense that you are a woman who values honesty above flattery and I would find it unconscionable to lie under such circumstances."

"You do not offend," Susan assured him quickly, feeling her face flush again at his words. He was the first of so many to see the truth and summarise it so succinctly. _Honesty above flattery._ "Please, continue."

"It's my father—he sent me here to marry you without a thought for what I wanted. He's very close to the Galman king, you see, and though he has a title now, and land, my family does not come from a noble line. He saved the King's life in battle some years ago, but that gives him no real claim to power. Still, the King is old and childless, and my father entertains some notion that I ought to be named as his heir." The words tumbled out with a strange sense of urgency and Susan found herself wondering why he would tell her this. Why, when it would be so much easier to lie, would he risk telling her the truth?

"And marrying a Narnian queen would strengthen your position at the Galman court and insure your succession?" The politics of marriage were not a mystery to her, but the plan did seem particularly cold blooded on the part of Gale's father. It was customary for the daughters of noblemen to be trading into marriages in exchange for power—less so for the sons to fall victim to similar treatment.

She looked up at him, studying his face in the shadows of the corridor, and felt an unexpected stab of pity for him. His jaw was set, eyes staring straight ahead though he did not seem to see his surroundings, and his arm beneath her hand was tense—trembling as he clenched his hands into fists. She understood what he must be feeling. The helplessness, anger, the suffocating sense of duty and obligation that defined every moment of his life—it was all so similar to what she felt herself.

"That is what my father wants," he said at last, his voice as strained as his expression. "That's why he sent me here—to win you for my bride by whatever means is necessary, and I am forbidden from returning until I have done so. If I could not win you I was to attempt the same with your sister, Queen Lucy."

Susan gritted her teeth to hold back a flood of cursing for the second time that day. It was one thing for suitors to flock to Cair peddling their lies to her—it was quite another for them to do the same to Lucy. She was too young, too innocently trusting to see beyond the guile of their words and Susan feared the consequences of that—feared the betrayal Lucy would feel, the brought spark of trust and joy extinguished when she realised there was no sincerity to be found in their declarations of love.

She was certain that someday Lucy would come to resent her—to envy her elder sister the attention she received—and would wish desperately and jealously for suitors of her own, but Susan would gladly bear her sister's ire if it would spare her unnecessary pain. It was this that made her turn away—as politely as was possible—the foreign dignitaries whose eyes wandered to Lucy instead of her. She, who accused Peter and Edmund of being overly protective of her, was just as protective of Lucy with the only irony being that no one yet realised it.

"And you?" she asked, pausing in front of the library door and releasing Lord Gale's arm to face him. "What is it that you want, my lord? What is it that has made you tell me the truth—even knowing that your father will not allow you to return home, knowing that you have given up your chance to be a king?"

He shrugged, looking far older and wearier than he had when she first met him in the corridor scarcely ten minutes before. "I don't know. Freedom, I suppose. It's suffocating, is it not—having so much that is expected of you, never being free to choose for yourself, but still being required to smile and laugh, showing the world a face that is not your own." He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and shrugged, a sudden smile lighting his face and pushing aside the weariness with deliberate brightness.

"Forgive me, your majesty, I have taken up quite enough of your time. I cannot imagine you would want me to remain here, knowing the depths of my father's greedy scheming, and I can assure you I will be gone tomorrow. I may not be able to return home, but I hear the Fauns in the Shuddering Woods have quite marvelous parties and it would seem a shame not to find out for myself." He bowed again, somewhat stiffly.

The attempt at humour was hollow, but Susan smiled obligingly. _Ever the proper hostess,_ she thought, somewhat bitterly. _The proper hostess who smiles and never says what she actually means. But is that all I am? Is that all I want to be?_ "Lord Gale?"

He paused, and on the door to push it open and looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in a question. "Your grace?"

 _Grace?_ An interesting choice of title—given that she had been far from graceful when she collided with him in the corridor—but Susan could not be quite sure if he spoke the words pointedly or not.

"Do not think you must leave simply for being honest, my lord. You were quite right—I much prefer truth to flattery, and if you wish to stay at Cair Paravel you are more than welcome to do so." She smiled, hoping he would see the sincerity behind her words, and was surprised to find that the expression did not feel forced. _I'm smiling because I want to—not because I am required to for the sake of politeness._ She could not remember the last time—outside of talking with her siblings—that she had done so.

The Galman tilted his head to one side slightly, regarding her thoughtfully. "Very well, your grace. I will consider your kind invitation." He bowed one final time and slipped through the library door—pulling it shut behind him.

Susan was halfway down the corridor that led to the kitchens before she remembered that she too had meant to go to the library. Sundance would be furious that she—

Susan paused mid-step, feeling the blood drain from her face. Sundance was not the only one she had meant to meet in the library—Duke Tirnan was meant to be awaiting her as well. She was meant to have a polite conversation with him about his lack of manners and general ill treatment of Narnian servants, and now she would have to go back. She sighed, resisted the urge to pull at her hair in frustration, and turned back.

 _Perhaps Edmund can draft an edict baring all human, male visitors from Cair Paravel when he returns._ It was a pleasant thought to entertain, and it was not the first time Susan had considered the possibility, but even that failed to make her smile genuine as she pushed the library door open to be met with a furious, bristling badger peering over the tops of his spectacles and a sullen Telmarine slumped in a chair before the fire.

 _Aslan, grant me patience to be a queen._

 **So, this is still a little short, but trust me, it's important. Also, this may seem like it's about to become a romance...refer to the summary where I say this is canon compliant ;-). I do love a good romance story, but I doubt I will ever try writing one. Do let me know what you think of Gale though-anyone have any theories about why he might be important? Let me know what you thought in a review!**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	10. Till Death

**Here's the next chapter, only slightly over a week after the last one, so I guess that is an improvement :-)**

 **Aslan's Daughter: That is a very interesting theory! I love hearing what people come up with, but of course I can neither confirm nor deny it's accuracy ;-). Thank you for reviewing!**

 **So, this is a slightly stressful read-at least that's what the three people who have already read it have told me. Fair warning.**

 _11th. of Greenroof, 1012-Sixthday_

"There's a letter for you, your majesty."

Peter glowered at the stack of books and papers spread across the desk before him, barely registering Brickle's somewhat timid declaration. Three days of poring over his brother's papers had proved very informative, though not necessarily over the topics he wanted information about.

He had learned more than he ever wanted to know about the intricate network of spies Edmund had built in Calormen, the Islands, Telmar, and even the more distant parts of Narnia itself. Minor Calormene lords sent Edmund information concerning troop movements, current battle tactics, and baffling (at least to Peter) political maneuvers—in exchange for what seemed rather exorbitant amounts of gold. Telmarine servants listened behind doors, copied official documents, and drew blueprints of the fortresses along Telmar's borders in exchange for the protection Edmund offered their families should they ever flee to Narnia. Bats and Ravens flew above the more remote forests of Narnia's western borders and returned with the locations of any remnants from the Witch's forces and relayed talk of treason—whispers among the Black Dwarves mainly. And Edmund kept written accounts of it all—at least, that was what Brickle assured him the hundreds of pages that seemed to be written in a particularly complex code consisted of. To Peter it looked like utter nonsense.

Even with the aid of Brickle and Metelus he had yet to find much information concerning Obridesh Tarkaan in particular. To be sure, there was a seeming excess of information concerning the Tisroc's government in general—and once it had been deciphered by Brickle and Metelus, Peter had found most of it to be sufficient grounds for war. The documents detailing the ever-growing slave trade alone were enough to make him feel distinctly ill, and it did not escape his notice that a good percentage of the slaves were acquired from Narnian protectorates such as the Lone Islands.

"Your majesty?" Apparently ignoring Brickle had made his presence no less of a fact, and Peter sighed as he pushed away the latest mountain of parchment and raised bleary eyes to focus on Brickle's nervous face.

"My apologies, Brickle." He tried to sound civil, remembering with a feeling of shame how cross he had been with the poor fellow the past weeks. "I fear I was not attending your words as I should have been."

Brickle frowned, seeming vaguely puzzled by the apology, and Peter nearly growled in annoyance. _First, it's problematic that I am not polite enough, and now that I_ am _being polite everyone is looking at me like I've turned into a babbling fool._

Recovering from his surprised puzzlement Brickle resorted to his usual habits, tugging on his beard with one perpetually grubby hand as he reached into his pocket with his other hand and pulled out a crumpled envelope. "Letter for you, your majesty," the dwarf mumbled, offering no apology for the state of the envelope. Then again, Peter supposed that if Brickle wished to mistreat his mail he had every right to do so and owed him no apology after his own behaviour.

He accepted the missive absentmindedly, already planning to ignore it for the time being and return to his search of Edmund's papers when the seal caught his attention. It was plain, rather than being embossed with a house or personal seal as was usual for official correspondence, and the wax was the sickening shade of red he had come to associate with fresh blood.

The envelope itself was addressed in a beautiful, flowing script—directed merely to "Peter" with no plethora of accompanying titles. It was a combination that usually heralded one of the more ridiculous forms of correspondence he was accustomed to receiving, and Peter sighed in annoyance. "I will call, if there is to be a reply," he told Brickle with what he hoped was a friendly, but dismissive nod, and watched with some amusement as the dwarf backed away—still tugging on his beard and mumbling under his breath until he disappeared behind one of the disorderly stacks of books that still littered the floor of Edmund's room. Peter valued his continued survival enough not to risk Sundance's wrath by returning such a great number of books to the library at one time—the old badger was quite snappish enough when only _one_ was delivered for him to re-shelve.

Peter returned his attention to the letter, scowling again at the perfect handwriting. _I swear, if this is another dratted love letter from some simpering duchess, I'll—_ but his thoughts stuttered to a halt as he tore carelessly through the thick paper and a ring tumbled out into his palm. It was finely wrought, in the particular style of the finest dwarfish craftsmen—made so that it would never tarnish or bend. But it was not the style that made his hands shake as he held the circle of silver up to the light, it was the insignia engraved on the disk of metal set upon the band—a set of scales above a pair of crossed swords.

The ring was as familiar to him as his own—the gold band set with the design of a roaring lion's head that currently resided on his own right hand. _Edmund._ It was his signet ring, but the handwriting on the envelope was most decidedly did not belong to his brother. Edmund's handwriting could be described as many things, but perfect was not one of them.

 _It could be Peridan's—there's no reason to suspect that anything has gone wrong._ But he did suspect, this was Edmund—Edmund who had somehow been abducted from a highly guarded palace and held captive for weeks, Edmund who systematically managed to find trouble even in what should have been the most innocuous of situations, and Edmund who provided Peter with a constant supply of reasons to worry, most of them well founded despite his protests to the contrary.

He stared at the envelope for another long moment, examining the seal, the handwriting, and the scrap of folded paper that had fluttered out with ring. There were a number of explanations, none of which he found particularly comforting. The handwriting could be Peridan's, meaning that Edmund was either injured or missing and the ring had been sent as proof that the missive originated with Peridan and Edmund. The handwriting could belong to an unknown individual who had captured them and was now demanding a ransom. Or, and Peter thought this both most likely and most troublesome, the letter could have been sent by Obridesh.

However terrible the words written on the scrap of paper might be he was nearly certain that not knowing would be worse, but that did not stop the slight tremor in his hands as he unfolded the letter. The words, which were written in the same beautiful handwriting, were concise and brutally straightforward. He stared at them, uncomprehending, reading and rereading the few sentences as if repetition would alter their meaning—it did not.

"BRICKLE!" The summons was louder than he intended, nearly deafening in the otherwise silent room, and he must have startled the dwarf badly. There was a crash of falling books as one of the precarious stacks was destabilised further and he vaguely heard a muffled curse as Brickle shuffled into view, hopping clumsily on one foot as he tried to rub the toes of his other foot.

The dwarf froze when he caught sight of Peter's face, and Peter realised his expression must have been terrifying and borderline manic, but he had little attention to devote to appearances. "Y-your majesty?" Brickle asked nervously, lowering his other foot to the ground and setting aside a heavy book which had been tucked under one arm.

Peter shook his head, trying to clear it and bring his burning eyes back into focus. The words before him swam dizzyingly, taunting him with their stubborn immutability. _"Consider this a warning of what is to come."_

"Susan," he managed to choke out at last, barely able to summon the breath required for the single word. His world had narrowed somehow, contracted until even breathing was of secondary importance to what was written in the tauntingly beautiful script.

"Your majesty? Are you well?" Brickle was likely tugging on his beard again and Peter could hear him shifting his weight uncertainly. It didn't matter.

 _Let him think what he will—let him think me mad. Perhaps I am._ "Get Susan." Still the dwarf hovered, uncertain and frightened—his presence stifling and infuriating in its concerned quality. "NOW!" Peter did not care that his voice was sharp, did not care that its volume made Brickle flinch involuntarily, it was effective and that was all he was currently concerned with. The door opened and then slammed shut rather forcefully—he heard Brickle's boots thudding down the corridor at a pace which was nearly a run, and then there was silence. He was alone with his thoughts and the scrap of paper he was quickly coming to hate more than he had ever hated anything—including Jadis.

He caught up the ring which lay discarded on the desk and clenched it in his fist so tightly that the engraved disk of metal cut into his palm. The pain was strangely welcome, grounding him as he tried to collect his jumbled thoughts into some order.

 _Susan—she'll have to be told, I can't avoid it. They'll all have to be told._ The letter in his hand was such a simple thing—so few sentences to bring a kingdom crashing down, to destroy his world, proclaim his failure, and strike him with the full force of his own culpability. _I did this, all of this, and all without leaving my chair by the fire._

"What have I done? Oh Aslan, what have I done?" His hands were shaking, eyes burning with the fire of unshed tears, and he dropped his head forward until it rested on the cool surface of the desk. _Be calm,_ he reminded himself out of habit. _Breathe._

 _Breathe—_ that was what Edmund always told him after battles, when the day was won or lost, and the mountains of dead swam before his eyes and filled him with haunting guilt. _Just breathe, brother._

"Peter?" He barely heard the door open, scarcely registered the flurry of skirts and rushing footsteps that heralded Susan's arrival until arms, warm and solid, wrapped around his shoulders. "Peter? Brickle, what in Aslan's name happened?"

The dwarf mumbled something inaudible to Peter and Susan's response was nearly drowned out by his own rasping attempts to breathe. He was aware that he was trembling, fighting to draw air into his spasming lungs. Susan shook his shoulder gently and tried to pry the letter in his hand from his clenched fingers. "Here, let me see that. Brickle, fetch Menwy for me, would you, I think he may be ill."

"I'm not ill," he managed to assure her at last, forcing the words past the burning lump in his throat. "Brickle, get out."

"Peter—" Susan began, her voice vaguely chiding in response to his harsh tone.

Peter raised his head from the desk to find her kneeling next to his chair, confusion and concern twisting her face into a frown. Concern, but not the conflicting and all-consuming guilt and rage he was certain must have been plain in his own expression—not yet. "I said, GET OUT!" The concern faded somewhat, replaced with a vaguely disapproving look, but Peter did not care—what must be said was better said in private. It was bad enough there had been a witness to his own loss of control, it would be unforgivable for him to allow anyone to see Susan's carefully constructed mask of control shatter.

Brickle bowed hurriedly, frowning and concerned, and shuffled out, pulling the door shut. Peter listened, hearing his footsteps retreat slowly as he forced himself to draw a single, deep and steadying breath. _She has to be told._

Susan was still trying to pry the letter from his grip, frowning as he continued to resist her efforts. "Peter, Brickle said he gave you a letter and that seemed to start all this. I can't help if I don't know what's happened."

 _Susan, always reasonable and calm._ "I did." He coughed as the words seemed to catch in his throat and managed another shaky breath. _Just breathe._ "I'll let you read it in a minute, but I need to tell you something first. I should have told you right away, I shouldn't have kept it secret—secrets are what caused this, all of this, in the first place."

"Peter, just tell me." She got to her feet with her usual grace and dropped into the other chair—ignoring the crackle of old parchment shifting beneath her weight. She was so calm, the model of a perfect queen, a caring and gentle sister, and Peter hated himself even more for what he must tell her. He knew what the news would do to her—could already see the calm expression fading from her face and hear the much deserved but still unwelcome accusation. _"What have you done?!"_

"Edmund knew—he knew it was Obridesh, and that's why he went to Tashbaan. He planned everything, he knew about the Lone Islands, manipulated the situation so that I would have no choice but to send him to Tashbaan and Lucy to The Lone Islands—he made it seem like it was my idea all along, but it was his from the start—all so he could get to Obridesh. I don't know what he was looking for, papers maybe—letters—but it was important. He knew what the Tarkaan was planning, I think he was trying to stop it." His voice was shaking, and he knew Susan heard it, but she only nodded, still calm though he could see the flash of frustration at Edmund's actions that flashed briefly through her eyes.

"Of course, he did." There was exasperation in her voice—the familiar note of fond annoyance at a brother who was frighteningly independent in nature and careless of his own safety as often as not. "And the letter? Something has upset you terribly, and it can't only be that."

He forced his hands to unclench, fingers cramping and tingling as blood rushed back into them, and held out the silver ring. Susan took it curiously, frowning at the blood that now flecked the bright surface from where it had cut Peter's hand.

"This is Edmund's." Her frown deepened. "Why would he send it back here? He will need it to prove who he is when he arrives in The Lone Islands—they won't recognise him otherwise."

Peter shook his head, voice deserting him entirely as he held out the now crumpled paper. She took it, eyes widening at the unfamiliar handwriting and face slowly draining of all colour.

"Peter, this isn't—this can't be true. Tell me it isn't—it can't be." The mask was cracking, the queen fading as the sister took her place, voice trembling and eyes misting with frightened tears. "It's a trick—there's no proof."

 _Still reasonable._ "I wish it was. Susan, Obridesh couldn't have known this—he couldn't have guessed. It isn't a trick." _It isn't a trick—it's real and there's no escaping it._ "He's dead."

Susan shook her head, face indescribably bloodless, as she stared blindly at the crumpled paper. "No. Peter, it can't be." She threw the scrap of paper onto the desk, suddenly furious as tears forced their way from her eyes. Peter waited, knowing that she was breaking—knowing that her anger would break him. He already knew it was his fault, knew he deserved her blame, but felt ill prepared to face it nonetheless. But she did not shout, or fly at him in a fury, instead she dropped to her knees beside his chair and buried her face against his shoulder, gasping for breath between her sobs, tears soaking through his shirt and burning against his skin. He held her, staring again at the crumpled paper, unable to read the words through the haze of his own tears, but he did not need to—they were burned immutably into his memory.

 _You sent him here, unprotected and unprepared—what did you think I would do, High King? I have sent you his ring, but I have long since learned a Narnian's capacity for hope is nearly infinite. Perhaps words, more than objects will convince you to abandon such useless pursuits. Your brother is dead, High King. He called out to you—for his brother to save him. He begged for death—screamed till his breath was nearly gone, and with the last of his strength spoke these words. "I will rule over this land with justice and mercy, protect all who dwell here from those who mean them harm, strive to create peace and prosperity for all, and give my life if necessary; till Aslan commands me otherwise or death takes me. I pledge myself to You, Aslan, to rule the land You have given me in accordance with Your will. I will abide by Your laws, honour Your decrees, and strive to serve You in whatever capacity You may require. This I swear to do until You release me from my vow or death claims me." I trust you will know the significance of these words._

 _Consider this a warning of what is to come. Narnia will fall, and you are the fool who has destroyed it._

He might have believed the words, the claim of Edmund's death, to be Calormene embellishment and trickery—had it not been for the words of the oath. The oath of a sovereign, sworn to Aslan and to Narnia and upheld with every breath Edmund had drawn since then. An oath whose significance would not have been known to Obridesh—he could not have known how often those words had been repeated on battlefields, forced from bloodstained lips while Peter shouted frantically for Lucy and Edmund clung to life by the most fragile of threads. He could not have known that those were the words Edmund spoke when death hovered so near that it was an almost visible shadow hanging over him—could not have known unless he had witnessed it himself—and that was nearly irrefutable proof that his claims were true.

"It's no use crying, Su," Peter heard himself saying, he sounded cruel, even to his own ears, but could not muster the strength to care. "It won't change anything."

She pulled away, face bloodless, save for her red and swollen eyes, and stared at him wildly. "No use? No use crying, Peter?" The force of her hand striking his cheek spun his head to the side and his vision flashed red for the briefest of moments. "Have you no heart?!" A moment later she threw herself forward again, wrapping her arms more tightly around his neck and sobbing all the harder.

erHe wrapped one arm around her shoulders and tucked her head under his chin, patting her back mechanically. _No use crying. No use. Useless. A failure._ His own tears would not fall—they remained trapped, burning his eyes and blurring his vision, but he felt he was unworthy to shed them. Unworthy to show his grief over a tragedy that he had perpetrated with his own carelessness.

Someone, likely Brickle, knocked on the door, urgency plain by the very fact that he risked interrupting a conversation which had caused him to be banished so summarily. Peter ignored the sound, still staring at the paper on the desk—his whole world still shrunken and contracted, containing nothing outside of the room that had been Edmund's, the hateful words burned into his consciousness, and Susan's shuddering, sobbing breaths.

"Your majesties, please!" The knocking redoubled in volume and Peter glared blearily at the door. "I have an urgent message." The voice was unmistakably Brickle's and his agitation was clear, but Peter could not bring himself to care.

It was Susan who stirred, lifting her tear streaked face from his shoulder and drawing in a steadying breath. She was not calm, not by any stretch of the definition, but she was somehow still queenly—breaking, weakened, but not yet broken and Peter envied her strength.

"Come in Brickle." Her voice shook, but it was far more collected than Peter felt his would have been. She pulled free from his absentminded embrace and returned to her own chair—shoulders squared and back perfectly straight as she wiped the tears from her cheeks with an unsteady hand.

Brickle opened the door cautiously, frowning and immediately twisting both hands in his beard as if the action would somehow ease whatever terror he seemed to be feeling. A Swallow perched on his shoulder, wings disheveled and head dropping in exhaustion. "She's come from Queen Lucy, your majesties," he said, depositing the bird gently on the desk between Peter and Susan and backing away with a bow and a curious look at Susan's swollen eyes and tear dampened face. Peter waved him away absentmindedly.

The Swallow swayed on her feet, gasping breaths audible as she quivered with exhaustion.

"What is it?" Peter heard himself ask, the words sounding cold and distant—disconnected from pained guilt that swirled through his mind. Susan's face was a mask of carefully controlled grief—tears still fighting to escape and held back only by force of will.

The Swallow lowered her head miserably, wings spread slightly for balance as she shook. "Your majesties, I bring grave news from you sister queen." Her words were punctuated by gasps for air and Peter realised dully how far she must have flown, and how fast, to be in such a state. "Her ship was attacked, by pirates, your majesties. She sent me back with a plea for assistance." She raised bright eyes, fixing her gaze suddenly on Peter's face and he saw his own emotions reflected there—grief, guilt, and burning anger—and he knew.

"I saw her fall, your majesties," she continued in a trembling voice, words barely audible above Susan's pained gasp of realisation. "She fell into the sea, your majesties, and did not rise above the waves."

Peter stared, frozen in silence, barely seeing as Susan's hands flew to her mouth, pressing against her face in a vain attempt to stifle the scream that tore from her throat. He wished he could cry out as she did, but his voice seemed frozen somewhere deep inside his chest—trapped by the collapse of every hope.

 _Lucy, Edmund—both dead, and both because of me. I am the fool who has destroyed them._

 **Ummm...I'm going to go hide now, please don't throw explosives in my general direction! We all know Lucy isn't dead, well, Peter, Susan and the Swallow don't...but we do! And you'll just have to wait and see what happened with Edmund in Tashbaan. Hopefully this was a good chapter? Let me know in a review :-)**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	11. Stranger in a Strange City

**I'm super proud of myself; I actually got this chapter up in under a week! Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed; you guys really are the best!**

 **NarniaGirl: Glad I kept you on the edge of your seat-thank you for not throwing things at me! As for Peter's reaction...I'm really glad you thought it was fitting! I fought with that section for a very long time! Hope you enjoy this chapter as well :-)**

 **Aslan's Daughter: I'm glad you like the suspense and attention to detail. It is always great to hear what you think :-)**

 _11_ _th_ _. of Greenroof, 1012—Sixthday_

When Peridan at last found himself collapsing into the shelter of a derelict doorway he quite correctly concluded that he had never been so exhausted. He felt as though he must have been running for hours, and the moon, hanging high in the sky above the distant temple spires immediately confirmed that suspicion. The city was quiet now, with no sign of guards pursuing him, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief as he slumped back against the slightly unsteady door frame of the abandoned house, pulling his knees up to his chest as he attempted to steady his breathing and calm the racing of his heart.

Exhausted, distraught, and dangerously close to abject panic he struggled to organise his jumbled thoughts and take stock of his current, unfavourable situation. He had kept possession of the canvas pack, despite its weight, but he highly doubted any of its contents would prove particularly helpful—considering that he was both hopelessly lost and being hunted by what likely constituted a full garrison of guards.

 _What I really need is a map,_ he reflected dejectedly. _Though I don't know where I could go even if I knew where I am. There's no use going back to Narnia or Archenland now—not when last I saw King Edmund he was on his knees with a sword at his throat._ He dropped his forehead down to rest on his knees and drew a long, shaky breath—suddenly overcome with the utterly undignified urge to cry.

 _I can't go back._ He could picture the scene if he did go back as clearly as if it were before him—superimposed over the dingy shadows of the street: the great hall at Cair Paravel lined with grim-faced guards—stern Centaurs, towering Narnian giants, burly, heavily armed Satyrs, and a host of other Creatures he did not yet know the names of. The three remaining Narnian sovereigns would be there too—Queen Lucy with her eyes red and swollen from weeping, Queen Susan silent and majestically composed, and the High King furious as a raging Lion, preparing to strike off his head for his failure.

Peridan was never afterwards sure when the terrified imagining left the realm of lucid thought and became a nightmare, but when next he was consciously aware he found that his eyes had drifted shut and he was a good deal stiffer and colder than he remembered being what seemed mere moments before. He shifted uncomfortably, forcing leaden eyelids open to find it was still night but the moon was no longer visible above the spires—he must have slept for hours and wondered dazedly what had woken him now.

The tramp of booted feet startled him badly a moment later, and he froze in the shadows of the doorway as the thud of marching footsteps against the uneven paving stones grew steadily closer, filling him with dread. There was no time to run, nowhere to go even if he could have run, and he shrank back—trying to fade into the darkness behind him, barely breathing and hoping desperately that his presence would remain undetected.

Nothing he had experienced as King Lune's advisor could have prepared him to be hunted through the streets of an unfamiliar city, and he was unsurprised to find that his hands were shaking badly. Politics he understood, he could navigate the murky waters of royal courts with varying degrees of success, but violence such as he had witnessed earlier in King Edmund's confrontation with the guards was utterly foreign to him, and his heart nearly stopped in terror when the footsteps paused—directly in front of his terribly insufficient hiding place—threatening a similar confrontation now.

Peering cautiously around the doorframe he could see that these were not the same guards he and King Edmund had fallen foul of so many hours earlier—there were only two this time, and they were far merrier—nearly having reached the stage of intoxication which would leave them stumbling and babbling like fools. He waited, barely breathing and silently preparing to meet his own, violent death, but the two soldiers had their backs to him as they passed a large earthenware jug back and forth between them. Peridan smelled the sharp tang of strong wine and wrinkled his nose in involuntary disgust.

He was surprised by their condition, such behaviour would certainly not have been tolerated in King Lune's court, and he greatly doubted—regardless of the somewhat lax disciplinary procedure he had witnessed at Cair Paravel—that the High King would have tolerated such debauchery and carelessness in duty either.

Thoroughly miserable, he shifted back infinitesimally, further from the drunken Calormenes, and wished he were anywhere else—wished too that the Calormenes would find some other abandoned alleyway to increase their level of intoxication in, thus leaving him to mope in peace. That particular circumstance, however, was rendered even more unlikely when the taller of the two soldiers spoke in a voice whose volume was doubtless greatly magnified by the amount of wine he had consumed. Peridan could only hope the noise did not draw other, less inept and stumbling guards to the street.

"What think you, oh noble comrade, of this Narnian dog we are tasked with finding?" The soldier's words were punctuated by a series of hiccups which unbalanced him further and left him leaning clumsily against the long spear he carried.

His companion half turned, moonlight glinting off the spike of his helmet and the round shield strapped to his forearm, and regarded the speaker critically for a moment before laughing merrily—but at his words or his rapidly increasing state of intoxication Peridan could not tell.

"What ought I to think of him? They say he is the High King of Narnia, but hath not one of the poets also truly said "the faithful of Tash ought not concern themselves with the affairs of demons and sorcerers, but rather swiftly strike off their heads lest they too become corrupted"?" He paused briefly to take another long drink from the jug, though he seemed to be the less intoxicated of the two and shook his head as if to clear it.

"High King," he continued, less steadily. "What need has any country of more than one king? The Tisroc, may he live forever, is plague enough upon us—I would not wish for another king and two babbling queens beside. These Northern fools would do well to rebel and strike off the head of this so-called High King themselves."

His companion hiccupped again and waved his hand in a deprecating fashion. "Well spoken, oh faithful one, but you speak of things you do not know. Do not forget that I have seen this High King fight and you have not. It pleased our gracious lord, the Tarkaan Obridesh, that I should accompany him to Redhaven as part of his personal guard this spring past." Here he paused, turning expectantly towards his companion as if expecting some expression of appreciation for the favour he had gained and Peridan heard his snort of annoyance when his fellow offered no such response.

The pause lasted for so long that he began to wonder if the guard would continue his tale at all or if he was doomed to huddle in the doorway forever while the drunken Calormenes unwittingly blocked his escape. It was a terrible thought, and he found himself drawing in a deep, relieved breath when the soldier continued speaking at last.

"It so pleased the gods that we were present for the yearly tournament and there I did witness such feats of arms performed by the barbarian king as made me tremble in fear at the mere thought of facing him in battle. Even after he was wounded in the melee he fought with all the ferocity of a rabid beast and emerged victorious." The note of awe in the Calormene's voice might have been heartening, had Peridan not been painfully aware that it was himself, and not the High King, who was trapped in Tashbaan. He entertained no illusions that he shared any characteristics, beyond the colour of his hair, with King Edmund's far-famed brother.

The other soldier clapped the speaker heartily on the shoulder, nearly knocking the other fellow off his increasingly unsteady feet, and laughed in a manner which was not at all pleasant. "I have also heard, oh weak of heart, how he stood idly by while his beloved brother was taken prisoner and then took to his heels as if the Inexorable himself was giving chase."

There was something about the conversation that trouble Peridan greatly, some confusion of the facts he had yet to identify, but which he sensed was of utmost importance. Regardless, the Calormene's words stung his already battered pride—more so because they were undeniably true—and distracted him from the unidentified source of his confusion. True shame had become an unfamiliar sensation for him, used as he was to hanging his head and playing the fool to elevate his status, but it was the only name he could give to the feeling which swept over him when he was faced with the depth of his own failure.

 _I fled like a coward,_ he thought, feeling his cheeks burn with shame. _It counts for nothing that I was under orders, only a coward would have behaved as I did. I fancy myself a Narnian, but would stand idly by and allow my sovereign lord to fall into enemy hands._ Whatever illusions he had previously held concerning his own intelligence and bravery were gone now, stripped away by the harsh reality of his current situation, and Peridan found that he was lost—not merely in a physical sense, but helplessly devoid of his own sense of identity as well. _If only I had never left Archenland._

The soldiers were speaking again, and Peridan forced himself to focus, pushing aside his despair and self-loathing however briefly.

"They say also," the taller man was saying, leaning conspiratorially closer to his companion, though the volume of his voice had barely lessened and Peridan could still clearly hear his words. "They say the High King is a demon who can transform himself into the likeness of a fierce and terrible lion."

His companion laughed, swaying drunkenly in his mirth, and Peridan found that despite his consternation he too was smiling. It was simply too ridiculous to be taken seriously. The Calormenes had obviously gotten the idea from the Narnian myth of Aslan—the great Lion who was reported to appear at times of great trouble—neglecting to take into account that the myths of Aslan predated the High King's rise to power by centuries.

Peridan himself did not give much credence to such tales—he had never seen Aslan personally and gave little credit to fanciful reports from others. The four Narnian monarchs however obviously believed in His existence, even claiming that He spoke with them often and appeared in Cair Paravel—however infrequently—and Peridan knew it was not his place to contradict them. He could not be certain that Aslan did not exist anymore than he could be certain the He did, but the one thing Peridan could say with utter certainty was that the High King—despite his fierceness in battle—was not a demon, and could not transform into a wild beast at will.

"They say also," countered the other soldier when he had regained both breath and balance sufficiently to speak. "That the younger, this King Edmund, can vanish in a swirl of mist, yet manifestly he cannot—else he would not now be chained in our lord's dungeons."

The wave of relief Peridan felt upon hearing these words was nearly enough to banish the shame of his failure. _If these two can be relied upon for any level of accuracy, then the King may yet be alive—his death need not yet fall upon my conscience._ What he planned to do about that revelation however, Peridan could not begin to imagine. If he was alive King Edmund would doubtless be heavily guarded and Peridan was alone, nearly unarmed, and had no idea how to even reach the Tarkaan's palace—he did not even know where he _currently_ was.

The guards seemed to have tired of standing in the dark, or perhaps they had merely exhausted their supply of wine, and Peridan breathed a sigh of relief as they moved on at last, still talking in loud voices and laughing merrily. He emerged slowly from the doorway, stretching his cramped muscles, and attempted to take stock of his situation more thoroughly.

The Eastern sky was beginning to brighten, heralding the arrival of dawn, and the air was still and somehow stifling despite the predawn chill—it seemed to hang over the city like a pall of choking dust. The Sea was to the East, he remembered that much about Tashbaan, and knew he would likely be able to follow the reek of rotting fish back to the docks now that he was certain of the direction.

 _But what then?_ What could he do when he reached the docks? It was clear that he could not return to Narnia—or even Archenland once news of King Edmund's capture reached King Lune. There were no ships departing for the Lone Islands, but surely there would be any number leaving for Galma or another of the Seven Isles, and he still had the pack and the gold it contained. King Edmund had told him there was little in Tashbaan which could not be bought for the right price, and if he kept his head down and gave no one cause for suspicion Peridan was nearly certain he could book passage out of Tashbaan.

 _And then? Live my life as an exile with the blood of a King forever staining my hands? A King…_ that was it—the source of his earlier confusion and the strangeness of the Calormenes' conversation. _They are still looking for the High King, not a nameless Northerner with fair hair._

It made no sense—King Edmund had been taken by Obridesh who, while he might not know Peridan's true identity, had not mistaken him for a Narnian King. The soldiers were in the Tarkaan's employ, that was clear from their remarks, yet they were ignorant of their quarry's insignificance and at least one of them was frightened by the idea of facing the supposed High King in battle.

The only explanation he could think of for the Tarkaan's failure to share his information was hardly comforting. Whatever plan Obridesh had constructed was close enough to completion that he feared no interference, and it was simply of no importance to him who his men believed Peridan to be.

 _There's nothing I can do._ He could use the gold in the pack, he could run and never look back, he could leave behind the dream of a home to call his own which had sustained him through all the long years of struggling to the top of King Lune's court, he could abandon his king to die at the hands of a greedy Calormene, and betray his ancestral homeland, the country he hoped to call his own, through his cowardice.

 _A coward of a king?_ He knew himself to be a coward, too accustomed to hiding from danger in the shadows to imagine how he could face it head on, but he had been mistaken for a king, a man whose bravery and strength was famed through every known kingdom. _But which ought I to choose?_ The mere question was ridiculous, impossible to answer, a choice he had never considered having to make, and yet he could not bear the thought of opening choosing cowardice and weakness.

 _But what if there was another choice—something I haven't thought of yet, a third option that would grant me safe passage through the streets of Tashbaan, perhaps even through the gates of Tarkaan Obridesh's palace?_ He knew King Edmund was a man who would not be unprepared for his plans to go awry—he would have had another plan, a disguise even, should he be recognised before leaving the city. Obviously, he had not expected to be captured, but regardless Peridan trusted his ability to plan for at least certain contingencies.

He cast his mind back, remembering seeing the King rummaging through the heavy canvas pack the first day aboard _The Bolt of Tash_ , throwing aside Calormene mail and a length of white cloth which could presumably serve as a turban, as he searched for the knife Peridan now carried. He had thought the collection of items to be rather bizarre at the time—he now recognised them as the beginnings of a very serviceable disguise. The mail would hide the Northern design of his tunic, the turban would disguise his fair hair, but neither would do anything to darken the pale shade of his skin to a less remarkable colour, unless…

He slipped the pack gratefully from his aching shoulders and rummaged through it—far more carefully than King Edmund was wont to do. The street was still very dark, lit neither by lamp or moon, and it took several minutes of clumsy fumbling before his fingers brushed against the large, earthenware jug which lurked near the bottom of the pack, wrapped in woolen fabric to protect it from breaking.

It was this jug which had puzzled him most among the myriad of strange items King Edmund had deemed necessary for their mission. At first glance, and to someone utterly unacquainted with the King's personality and habits, it would have appeared to be a jug of wine—not unlike the one Peridan had observed in the hands of the Calormene soldiers. But Peridan, however distant he kept himself from the personal affairs of his monarchs, was not uninformed about their habits or personalities. He might easily have suspected the High king of considering wine a necessity on a long journey, but King Edmund was not someone he could easily imagine drinking an excess of anything save for coffee.

He uncorked the jug cautiously, the strong scent of the liquid immediately making his eyes water. The jug's contents were clearly not alcoholic and the smell, though strong, was not entirely unpleasant which reassured him somewhat that the liquid was neither poison nor acid. Still, he gritted his teeth in anticipation of some disaster as he carefully poured a few drops of the liquid out into the palm of his hand. It was thick, almost slimy in consistency, very dark in colour, and when he wiped his hand on the edge of his cloak the skin of his palm remained stained a light brown.

He had heard rumours of such a substance being used by the few humans in King Edmund's employ and hoped that most of them were true. If they were, then he had only to cover any exposed skin with the substance and he would be indistinguishable from a native borne Calormen—it was also rumoured that the only way to remove the dye was vigorous scrubbing with a mixture of ashes and strong soap—which would allow him to sustain the disguise even if it rained.

Grimacing at the increasingly overwhelming smell—which was similar to crushed pine needles—he poured more of the thick liquid into the palm of his hand and rubbed it vigorously into the skin of his face and neck, hoping he was being thorough enough to pass a cursory examination. When the sun rose, he would appear to be merely another Calormene soldier—as long as no one observed him closely enough to realise he carried no weapons. But, if there was one thing he had learned to excel at it was keeping his head down and drawing as little attention to himself as possible—not everyone in King Lune's court had been kind to him and evasion was an invaluable tactic.

 _Still, I'll have to find weapons eventually, and a map of the city, or better yet someone greedy enough to help me without asking questions._ His hands shook as he struggled to wrap the white cloth around his head in a passable approximation of the Calormene's turbans. It was insane—the thought that he, an incompetent fighter and reluctant participant in whatever political plot he had stumbled into, was the only one who stood a chance of saving his King's life.

 _And if I can't?_ But he was reluctantly forced to admit that he knew the answer to that question. Failure would likely mean death—either at the hands of Calormene soldiers or his own High King.

" _Don't fail"_ , he remembered his father telling him as he lay frail and dying from the terrible sickness that had swept through Archenland nearly six winters before. He had been speaking of Peridan's personal crusade to reclaim their lost home, and the words returned to Peridan now as a reminder of everything he stood to lose. He was the last of his line, the last of a once proud Narnian house, and if he failed now there would be no one left. The legacy passed down through the generations would end with him, and he would die an unremarked failure with no one left to mourn his passing.

He clenched his fists, forcing his hands to stop shaking, and shouldered the pack once more as he turned his face to the rising sun with a newfound determination. "I won't fail father—I can still make this right, and I will."

 **Hopefully this provides some insight into Peridan's character-he is very difficult for me to write, but hopefully I'm getting better at it :-)**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**

 **Oh, remember when I said the dates at the beginnings of the chapters would be important? Look closely, especially at the date on this and the previous chapter...**


	12. Grace Enough

**Umm...hi! It's been awhile-so sorry! I've had midterms, migraines, and no spare time, so writing has had to be put on the backburner for a bit, but I wanted to at least post something. This chapter was meant to be the requested Lucy chapter-that also was the next one scheduled to be posted, but because of my hectic schedule that did not happen. This is Peter's next chapter, and it's being posted now for the simple reason that it was partially written already because the first half was originally intended to be included in Peter's last chapter, but that ended up making it way to long. Anyway, I really do apologise for not having Lucy and Susan's chapters ready, but I am working on them now and hope to have them posted in the next week or so. Fingers crossed.**

 **Aslan's Daughter: An explanation of Aslan in Archenlandish culture will be included t some point in one of Peridan's later chapters. I definitely have a lot to say on the matter, so stay tuned so to speak! Sorry about this not being Lucy's chapter; she is coming up next and it will be a long one!**

 _12_ _th_ _.-13_ _th_ _. of Greenroof, 1012—Seventhday-Eighthday_

Peter drifted through the next day in haze that barely felt real. There were council meetings, streams of strangers with sad faces pouring through the gates to offer their condolences, and running below it all like a treacherous current were the whispers. Everyone had their own speculations as to what had happened—everyone claimed they wanted to know, but scarcely anyone seemed to believe the truth.

It was one of King Edmund's tricks, the kinder of the gossips claimed, he was alive somewhere and it was all part of a plot to force the Calormenes into showing their true intentions. Alternatively, they believed he had been betrayed by one of his "disreputable Calormene informants" and Narnia was in terrible danger. Queen Lucy must have been involved, others insisted, she was missing—not dead—and would reappear with a fleet of pirate ships at her command. Or, she was being held captive by bloodthirsty buccaneers who would demand money for her return and then kill her once they had been paid.

Peter ignored them all. He responded mechanically to legitimate questions, did his best to reassure the squabbling lords on the council that Narnia would stand strong despite the losses they had suffered, and studiously ignored the pitying looks directed at him by everyone he saw. He supposed he must look like a mad man, considering the bruise left on his face from Susan's palm and his sleepless, bloodshot eyes. He supposed he must look the part of the desperately grieving older brother, and yet he could still not bring himself to cry—to grieve.

Susan had not left her rooms, had not spoken that he knew of since she had been told of Lucy's death, but he could not bring himself to offer her comfort either—he had none to give. He had failed Lucy, Edmund, and now he would fail Susan as well—how could he not? How could he face her knowing what he had done, knowing how she must hate him?

And then there was the crisis in the Lone Islands to be considered as well. In the shock and horror of Lucy and Edmund's deaths he had nearly forgotten, and utterly ignored, the reason for their departure in the first place. The arrival of a letter from governor Athelstan on the second morning destroyed any hope that he could continue to do so.

 _Athelstan, by the gift of Aslan, by appointment and by birth, governor of the Lone Islands and Lord of Narrowhaven, to Peter, by the gift of Aslan, by election, by prescription, and by conquest, High King over all Kings in Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands and Lord of Cair Paravel, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion; Greetings._

 _Lord King,_

 _Have I done aught to offend you? I had expected some aid to be sent after my last correspondence, and indeed, was assured by you that I would receive appropriate assistance. Yet, no troops or emissaries have come, and the situation here is delicate at best. High King, I beg you, aid me. The people are rioting, they are calling for my immediate execution, and I fear nothing short of full military force can now bring them back under the benevolent governance of yourself and your royal siblings._

 _Dear king, if I have given offence I cry your pardon, but please do not punish those who have not wronged you for my transgressions. There are still those in these Islands who are loyal to you and to Narnia, and I fear that they will be caught in the riots and torn apart by the mob for their steadfast belief in you._

 _I remain your faithful servant,_ _Athelstan, Governor of the Lone Islands and Lord of Narrowhaven._

 _May the Emperor have mercy on both our souls._

Peter stared, unseeing, at the parchment in his hand for a long moment after he had finished reading it. This was what it had come to—a rebellion threatening to become violent, pirates sailing the sea, murdering as they went, and two dead siblings. He knew Athelstan both needed and deserved aid, but there was no way for troops to reach him. The pirates could be dealt with by force of arms, but certainly not in time to save the Islands from descending into violent, bloody rebellion.

 _And staring at crumpled parchment changes nothing._ His gaze drifted involuntarily from Athelstan's letter to the other piece of parchment on his desk. _"Consider this a warning." A warning of what—that no one is safe, that I have failed everyone I sought to protect?_

He clenched his fists, biting his lip to keep from screaming as Susan had—though he suspected she had been driven more by grief than fury as he seemed to be. Grief was not an emotion he currently had the leisure to engage in, fury was simpler, and would likely prove more effective.

" _Have you no heart?"_ Peter could hardly blame Susan for her words, could hardly credit himself with having a heart, as he pushed the chair back from his desk and stood mechanically. He could not grieve, and so he must go on.

Orieus regarded him gravely when he arrived at the training grounds and wordlessly retrieved a sword and shield from the armoury. Peter knew his sharp eyed general could not have missed his persistent limp, but Orieus was familiar enough with his periodically dark moods to refrain from questioning his ability to fight. They both knew he would fight anyway—throwing himself relentlessly into the familiar rhythms of blows and parries until some sense of normalcy was restored to a world gone mad.

Orieus might not have questioned him, but by the fourth time he ended face down in the mud Peter found that _he_ was reluctantly questioning his own ability to do anything more than gain a rather spectacular collection of bruises. He rolled to his feet, far more clumsily than he would have wished, and glared at his impassive teacher as he pulled off his mud-covered helmet.

"Five minutes?" His voice was rough and toneless, but that hardly surprised him given that he had been speaking as little as was possible. Orieus nodded shortly—his own armour was frustratingly free of mud—and slid the huge broadsword into the sheath across his back.

"You expect war with the Calormene?" The seeming non-sequitur was characteristic of Orieus and Peter found it strangely comforting that the Centaur's first words to him that day had not been an inquiry as to his health—when Orieus began wasting time with meaningless inquiries Narnia would truly be lost.

"I always expect war with Calormen, but yes, more so now." _If they are bold enough to murder my brother, then surely they are bold enough to face us in battle, and when they do—_

"If I may, High King, you are not currently in any state to fight them."

Looking down at his mud splattered armour while trying to keep his weight balanced mainly on one foot, Peter had to admit that—as usual—Orieus was right. He sighed and limped across the muddy field to sit atop the stone wall that bordered it, aware that Orieus was following with an impressive lack of noise. "What do you suggest I do?"

"Allow yourself to grieve, and to heal—you are no use to Narnia half dead, Peter." There was no trace of pity in the Centaur's voice, but his eyes were sad and the lack of formality in his method of address showed his grief more deeply than words ever could. Peter envied him that—the ability to grieve without feeling responsible for the tragedy and pain, without the whole world watching and expecting his tears.

"I can't."

Orieus sighed audibly, stamping uneasily at the muddy ground with one foreleg, and Peter glared up at him, knowing he wanted to speak and was restraining himself from doing so.

"What is it, Orieus? You have never shied from speaking your mind, if you do so now then you will be doing us both a great disservice." He was aware that his voice had grown sharper, transitioning almost unconsciously into the tone he used in council when one of the Lords was being particularly trying.

The Centaur's tail swished irritably—likely more in reaction to his own reticence than to being addressed as less than an equal—and he nodded, studying his interlocked fingers intently. "You blame yourself for what has happened, but you should not do so. No," he held up a hand as Peter opened his mouth to give voice to a quarrelsome retort. "You bade me speak, and now you must listen. Do you remember your sister Lucy's first battle?"

The question was something of a shock, but Peter nodded. He did not think he would ever forget the terror of knowingly placing Lucy in danger—even if it was at her own insistence. The overwhelming scent of death seemed to descend on the bright, fresh air of the courtyard and he shuddered involuntarily—remembering.

 _The battle was over, the bodies of Fell Beasts, remnants of the Witch's army run to ground at last, lay tangled among those of loyal Narnians—friends, soldiers, perhaps even family. That thought tore through him like an arrow, his knees buckled, nausea threatening to overwhelm him as he scanned the battlefield frantically. No matter how long he ruled Peter knew the feeling of terror and horror as he searched for familiar bodies among the carnage would never fade._

 _He pulled off his helmet, shaking sweat damp hair back from his forehead, and continued his search, stumbling—exhaustion and urgency mingling to make him clumsy. He found Orieus first, the Centaur was picking his way almost delicately between the clumps of bodies—stopping periodically to check the pulse of an injured soldier or slit the throat of a Fell too near death to survive the day._

" _Peter!" He turned to see Edmund stepping disgustedly over the body of a Minotaur, and was relieved to see that his brother appeared battered but not seriously injured. Minor cuts and bruises were a soldier's lot, and Peter was certain he looked no better. "Where's Lucy?"_

 _The unconscious echo of Susan's words after the Battle of Beruna nearly sent him into a blind panic and Edmund caught his arm with a frown. Peter shook his head, brushing him off almost absentmindedly. No. Lucy's first battle would not end as Edmund's had done—Lucy was safe, far from the thick of the fighting with the archers._ But so was Edmund the first time.

" _Peter!" He barely had time to recognise Lucy's shrill cry before she crashed into him, alive and seeming unhurt, but very far from where she was supposed to have been._

" _Lu! What the blazes do you think you're doing?" He gripped her shoulders, holding her at arm's length as he glared down at her dirt streaked face. "You were supposed to stay with the archers!"_

 _Lucy frowned as she pulled her shoulders free of his grip. "I was, and then I saw a group of wolves trying to flank a troop of Fauns, so I brought some of the Dwarves down with me to help them."_

 _Peter gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to grab her shoulders again and attempt to shake some modicum of sense back into her. "You could have been killed!"_

 _Her frown lasted only a moment longer before she nodded, as if understanding his anger for the first time, and threw her arms around him again. "But I wasn't, and it was the right thing to do."_

"King Peter?" Orieus' voice shook him out of the memory and he nodded, brushing aside the concerned hand the general had placed on his shoulder.

"I wouldn't let her ride to battle with us for months after that." Lucy had been angry as she very rarely was, accused him of being over protective, and had eventually convinced him to change his mind by threatening to go along without his knowledge or approval. Lucy had always been someone who would do what she believed to be right—regardless of the danger, or the approval of others.

"I do understand what you're trying to tell me, Orieus, but this is different. Lucy would never have gone to the Lone Islands if I had not sent her. She didn't want to go, she—" his voice broke and he drew in a shuddering breath, refusing to lose control now. "I can't—I can't be here right now."

Orieus did not comment and Peter shook his head as he limped clumsily back towards the castle—he did not need to look back to know that the general was still watching him with quiet understanding.

* * *

 _There was laughter once, light and airy and filled with such youthful life and joy. Once there was gold—the flash of Lucy's hair in spring sunlight as her running footfalls thumped merrily down through the halls and her hair, tugged free from its confining braids streamed after her. There had been another laugh—less carefree but equally filled with joy—as Edmund rushed after her, caught her up, and spun her until her bare feet left the worn stones of the floor. Breathless, disheveled, and beaming with the simple happiness of a warm spring day they turned to Peter reaching out eager hands to beckon him to their side. He reached for them, fingers trembling as his hand paused an inch from Lucy's and he looked from one beloved face to the other. One was fair and rosy—blue eyes sparkling with joy and face shining with innocent joy. One was dark and pale, and in his eyes too there was joy and love, but it was quieter—the joy of a traitor redeemed, the love of the prodigal returned._

 _He reached for them, longing and pain misting before his eyes, and breath shuddering in his chest until he felt his heart would stop. They crumbled to dust—Edmund and Lucy vanishing in an instant as his fingers brushed theirs. There was laughter once—once, but never again._

Peter jolted awake violently—starting forward in his chair with a cry, hands still reaching out as if he could recapture the moment, as if, by strength of will and love he could recall those he loved from the depths of sea and the torment of captivity.

The fire had burned to a few faintly glowing embers—he had not meant to sleep, had not meant to do anything, but must have sat dreaming for hours. It had seemed mere minutes to his desperate mind and he drew his hands back, clenching his shaking fingers into fists.

 _I do not wish to dream—I do not wish to remember, but to forget._ He gritted his teeth against the shudder that tore through him—against the warm rush of tears that struggled to overflow. He forced his fists to unclench and reached for the wine flask and crystal goblet beside his chair. Brickle had frowned and tugged at his beard when commanded to bring them, but Peter knew he would not refuse—no one dared cross him now, not for any fear of temper, but for fear that he would shatter like a dropped crystal glass himself.

The wine was dry—it burned his throat and settled like lead in his stomach—but he refilled the goblet as soon as he had drained it, and raised it again to his lips with shaking hands. The pain would dull—the agony of loss would ebb—he would forget for precious moments until a dazed stupor overcame him. He would wake, half fallen from his chair, to a cold hearth and a head that ached as if a horse's hooves had trampled it. He would wake to Susan's scolding—perhaps that would be a blessing, for it would signal that his sister had left her abject grief and taken charge once more. It would signal that he was not needed, that he need not remain as he was—an emblem of a strength he did not possess.

At least, he wished with all the weary and dogged determination of a grief weighted mind that this was what would be.

He reached for a third goblet of wine, though the pain had yet to ease and the curious swimming of the room before his eyes had more to do with tears than with the effects of the strong Narnian vintage.

 _Lucy. Oh Lucy._ His eyes caught upon the gold of Rhindon's pommel, the sword lying carelessly where he had flung it down, and its brightness seemed a cheap imitation of Lucy's wild curls. _What did I last say to her? What comfort did I give her for her fears, what words of love to bear with her?_

He could not remember and that seemed a mockery. He could not forget his pain, could not forget his loss, but the one thing which might have given him comfort—the recollection of their parting filled with embraces and loving words—escaped the grasp of his mind.

The wine burned his throat and his eyes burned just as fiercely in seeming sympathy as he struggled to hold back the tears. He was a man, a king, and a knight—he had no time for such weakness. If he began once to weep he would never cease—it fell to Susan to grieve, to him fell the planning, the revenge, and the guilt.

 _But revenge upon whom? A faceless enemy who steals ships and attacks by chance upon a sea I have not the stomach to bear sailing? Revenge upon myself, who sent out a girl—scarcely more than a child—my sister, to do the work which ought to have been mine?_

He pressed his palms against his aching spinning head and wished that it might end—that he too might sink beneath the waves of a warm sea to find peace somewhere far beyond a world left colder by the absence of Lucy's light.

 _Peace._ There would have been no peace for Edmund—no warm sea pushing him under and carrying him away. Peter had heard drowning was nearly painless at the end—once you accepted and ceased to struggle, and though he could not recall from whom he heard the words he had always trusted them. Now he _had to_ trust them, for he could not bear to think that both brother and sister had died in fear and pain.

" _He called out to you—for his brother to save him. He begged for death—screamed till his breath left_ him", _s_ o claimed the elegant and beautiful script decorating the heavy parchment next to the wine flask.

Peter could not quite believe it; surely this was more Calormene embellishment and dramatism. Edmund did not beg, did not scream save in nightmares that tore viciously at his unconscious mind. But he did call out, he did call Peter's name in pain, in desperation, and in fear. How many times had he jolted awake at night, tormented by a distant and insubstantial demon, how many times had he groaned in agony, sinking to his knees upon a bloody and mercy forsaken battlefield, and how many times forced open heavy eyelids and cracked, bleeding lips to form a single word. " _Peter."_

Lucy called out for Aslan in pain, in sickness, or in a rare nightmare. Her loving, valiant spirit reached ever to the Lion for comfort, and He, in His boundless love for her, would answer.

Susan called for their mother—the distant shadow of love that she clung to, even as memory failed her, with all the tenacity of her gentle heart. Peter could not begin to guess what comfort a distant memory might bring his sister, but she always calmed and smiled to dream of more peaceful things and, perhaps, distant memories that he had forgotten himself.

But Edmund—Edmund never called for their mother, nor for their father, nor for Aslan—though no one could doubt he loved the Lion as utterly as Lucy did—nor did he call for his sisters. Always, on battlefield, sickbed, or shuddering in terror through the darkest watches of the night he called only for his brother.

Peter knew why, and before the knowledge had brought him comfort, pride even, now it was a reminder merely of his all-consuming guilt. Once Peter had asked Aslan to help his brother—begged him to send him aid, to take away his pain. The Lion had replied—the Lion always replied, but never it seemed in the way Peter expected, or even wished.

" _My child,"_ Aslan's voice had whispered once, ever so gently in Peter's ear as he felt the warmth of the Lion's breath. _"I have helped him; I have given him you."_ He been frightened then, afraid Edmund would not recover from trauma suffered at the hands of the Northern giants, but Aslan's words had comforted him. He had known then, as he knew now, that he was Aslan's gift to Edmund. He was protector, confidant, friend, and brother—he was the one whose duty it was to guard his brother, in battle and in peace. And in all respects he knew himself to be an utter failure.

Edmund was dead—had died calling out to him, still trusting that his brother would save him—still trusting that Peter would not fail him.

 _And I did. I wasn't there. I sent you to Calormen—sent you to endure torture and death at the hands of a brute who I knew meant to do you harm. I have killed you, brother, and you sister._

" _What have you done?!"_

" _No use crying, Peter? Have you no heart?!"_

He threw the crystal goblet with all his force against the cooling stones of the hearth—it shattered musically, the shards spraying upwards in an explosion of needle-fine daggers, and he was left staring at the spreading stain of red where the wine splashed against the rich blue carpet beneath his feet.

 _Oh sister, I have a heart—but what's the use if all I touch turns to spilled and cooling blood, or crumbles to ash as I reach for it. What's the use Lucy? What's the use in loving, in laughter, in joy when in the end there is nothing? What's the use, Edmund, in justice, in forgiveness, in steadfast faith, if the betrayer must become the betrayed and perish in the flames lit by my own foolishness?_

"What have I done?" His voice was foreign to him—ragged and hoarse with disuse—he had not spoken since ordering Brickle to bring him wine, before that not since he had left Orieus on the training grounds. "Oh Aslan! What have I done?"

He fell forward from his chair—knees pressed against the damp carpet as he beat his fists against the cold, wine-stained stones of the hearth. Shards of crystal cut his skin, embedded themselves in his knuckles, but the sting of the dozen small wounds within his flesh was lost in the throbbing, agonizing abyss of pain that was his heart. Tears fell, mingling with wine and blood, and offering no abatement of pain though the force of his grief drove him down until his forehead rested between his bloodied fists.

"Oh Aslan," his voice was broken, the words welling up from his soul like blood from a gaping rent in flesh. "Oh Aslan, what have I done?"

Through shattered sight he saw golden fire beside his filthy, bleeding hands—great paws, one on either side of him and found that he lay, huddled between the front legs of a lion; of The Lion.

Aslan bent His head over Peter's own bowed and shaking shoulders, rested His muzzle upon the disheveled head of the High King, breathing upon him. Warmth flowed through Peter with the tenderness of the gentlest of all caresses, and though it did not ease his tears he felt some measure of strength return to him.

"My son," the Lion whispered softly, a great tear dropping from one golden eye to splash heavily next to Peter's own tears. "My dear son."

Peter felt his grief suddenly seem to magnify, for how could it ever lessen, how could he ever be whole again if the Lion too wept?

"I weep for you," Aslan said softly, breathing once more upon his bowed head. "For your grief, and for your agony—not for your brother, nor your sister, High King."

Peter turned, lifting bleary eyes to study the Lion's face and found such sorrow and such kindness there that he could barely bear to look upon Him. "For me?"

"For the pain you now feel, and for the trials of the path you now must tread. My son, there may come a day when you must weep for the loss of those dear to you, but it is not now. Do not grieve for those who remain, as they have always been, in My keeping."

He could barely dare to hope, did not think he could bear the blow of loss—of hopelessness—a second time, but looking into the loving eyes of the Lion he could not dare not to hope. "Are they—" his voice shook and broke as a shuddering breath forced its way from his lungs and he fought to hold back another sob. "Are they not dead, then?"

"No one who believes in Me, and loves Me, and strives to follow Me can truly die, Son of Adam."

"I-I know, but Aslan, please, have they not yet gone to Your Country?" Peter could not now look into the Lion's eyes—could not bear it if he should see rebuke there, or worse, if he should see the truth of his siblings' death somehow reflected in their golden depths.

"You must depart now on a journey, High King—on the business I will appoint to you. Your sister Lucy has another path to take now, it will be long and difficult, but when she reaches the end of it she will return to you. This is my promise to you, Adam's son."

Peter could not doubt the Lion's words, but what He had not said seemed clearer than what He had. _He promised that Lucy would return to us, but not that Edmund would._ He forced himself to draw in a long, steadying breath and unclenched his fists. "And Edmund?"

Aslan sighed, His breath warm as it brushed through Peter's hair, offering silent comfort. "There is little honesty to be found in the words of desperate men, Son of Adam, and the Tarkaan is truly desperate. His soul is no longer his own—all he does is for a single purpose, and in service of a foul Master. "

"But Edmund—" Peter paused to take another breath, trying to push back the panic that tore at his control. _Lucy is alive—if there is grace enough in this world to grant me the return of one who is dear to me then surely there is grace enough for Edmund as well._

Aslan dipped His head until Peter had no choice but to look directly into His eyes—there was no rebuke to be found there, no confirmation of hopelessness, and once again Peter could not help but dare to hope. "He is not dead," the Lion said quietly, slowly—as if choosing his next words with utmost care. "But neither is he alive. There may yet be a way to reach him, but to do so you must go to Tashbaan. You must search for him there in secret, and if you find him he will tell you what you must do to save Narnia. trust in me, Son of Adam, and do not delay."

"But Aslan, surely he must be one or the other? How can some one be neither dead nor alive?" But the Lion's face was rippling, as if Peter was suddenly seeing a reflection of Him, and a moment later He was gone, but an echo of His voice drifted back, quiet and calm.

 _"Remember, High King, you have been given great power and the authority to rule these lands, but who you are is not defined by your power, but rather by what you choose to do with it."_

Then Peter was alone, still kneeling among the shards of crystal and spilled wine, with his hands still stinging, but his heart pounding with near frantic hope.

"Brickle! BRICKLE!" There was no time to waste. A ship could be ready to set sail by the morning, he would talk to Susan at once, and once he reached Tashbaan he resolved that nothing would stop him from finding his brother.

 **Well, there we go. Apologies for grammar and spelling errors; it's late and I am determined to post tonight, but I will come back and clean up the grammar stuff as soon as possible. Leave me a review if you can and let me know what you thought and any theories you have about what is going on with Edmund! I always love hearing from all of you :-)**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	13. Of Pirates and Lords

**Here is Lucy's chapter at last, and as promised it is a very respectable length! As always it was lovely to receive so many reviews on the last chapter-you guys are absolutely amazing!**

 **Guest: So glad to hear that you enjoyed the last chapter! :-)**

 **NarniaGirl: Very relieved to hear that Peter's character was well done-it gave me no end of trouble to write! Stay tuned to find out what happens to Ed...I think everyone will be very surprised when they find out what's going on...**

 **Guest: Awh! Thanks for the compliment! I am very glad to hear you are enjoying the story :-)**

 _11_ _th_ _. of Greenroof, 1012—Sixthday_

Lucy heard the other Narnians long before she saw them—mainly due to the fact that Rhegus was shouting. Years of acquaintance with the Doornish sea captain had given her the rather helpful ability of reading his mood by his accent, and if his current manner of speech was any indication he was somewhere between fury and panic.

"Wha' do ye mean "she's run off"?!" Despite the volume of his voice and the more pronounced than usual accent Lucy rather admired the restraint he showed by not cursing—though she felt both guilty and sorry for Amathia, who she was certain was the current recipient of Rhegus' ire.

She quickened her steps, though it would hardly have been safe to run across strange terrain in the deepening twilight, and followed the sounds of waves and voices—though Rhegus' words were the only ones she could distinguish above the sound of the ocean. Amathia's responses were drowned out completely.

"An' for tha' I thank ye, lady, though I may be more inclined t' trust yer word if my Queen were present, rather than bein' Lion only knows where! 'ow could ye let 'er wander off on 'er own?!"

With a final, exhausted burst of effort Lucy forced her weary and shaking legs to carry her forward, over the last gentle rise until she found herself half tumbling, half sliding down a sandy embankment to land very clumsily on the beach below. A circle of shadowy shapes sprang to their feet—a few to their hooves—as she tumbled into the centre of their council and the tall figure pacing near the water's edge froze suddenly, hands still half raised in his customary habit of causing his hair to enter a state of great disarray.

Rhegus cursed, rather loudly, then, seeming startled by his own outburst hastened forward to pull Lucy to her feet. "Beg pardon, your majesty," he mumbled, his expression appearing abashed even in the dim light. "We though' ye were dead, an' then the Sea Woman told us ye 'ad been found but 'ad gone runnin' off, an' Queen Lucy, I really must protest!"

Lucy ruefully brushed sand from her hair and skirts for the second time that day and felt her face flush with shame. Despite Aslan's words and her certainty that it must have been necessary for her to see what He had shown her, she could not help feeling terrible when faced with the worried, half-frantic expression on her captain's face—and on the faces of the crew and guards who were huddled miserably on the beach. She knew she must have worried them all terribly, though until that moment she had not truly understood how badly.

" _We though' ye were dead."_ Her memory of the last few moments aboard the _Splendour Hyaline_ was still somewhat jumbled, but now that she focused on the recollection she realised how it must have appeared to those who saw her fall. _I hit my head and disappeared beneath the water—they can't have seen Amathia save me. Why, it's no wonder they thought I was dead!_

"I am sorry, Captain." Rather than meeting his gaze she fixed her eyes on her bare toes and the sand beneath them as she shuffled her feet—feeling more like a wayward child than a queen. Oh, how Susan would have scolded her!

"And I owe you an apology as well, Amathia." She turned rather reluctantly toward the sea and was unsurprised to find the Sea Woman regarding her with a rather betrayed expression. "I should not have wandered off and left you concerned for my safety."

Amathia's dark expression persisted for another moment before her blue tinted face broke into a smile and she swished her tail, showering Lucy, Rhegus, and anyone else unfortunate enough to be standing nearby with a good deal of water. "It is of no matter now, Queen Lucy. Aslan knows I have experience enough dealing with young sea urchins to know you meant no harm."

Lucy giggled, though she was aware that Rhegus was frowning at the presumption of his queen being called a "young sea urchin", and curtsied as gracefully as she was able with the sand shifting beneath her feet. Amathia raised a webbed hand in a gesture of farewell and dipped her head beneath the water—swimming swiftly back towards the open sea.

Rhegus whistled softly between his teeth and scrubbed a hand through his wild hair. "Well then, Queen Lucy, ye look 'alf dead on your feet—if ye don't mind my sayin' so. Perhaps ye'd better get some sleep."

"Captain!" The Faun in charge of Lucy's guards stamped his hooves emphatically, speaking far more sharply than Lucy had thought him capable of. Rhegus turned to glare at him, fists clenched as if he were trying very hard not to lose his temper, and shook his head decisively.

"Not tonight, Merton. 'Er majesty needs rest an' I daresay the rest o' our tempers would benefit from a good bit o' sleep as well." Lucy could not remember Rhegus ever sounding quite so cross, or Merton looking at anyone quite as murderously as he was regarding the captain, but she was exhausted and Rhegus' advice sounded rather splendid. She supposed that being unconscious after falling from a ship and nearly drowning did not really count as sleeping and was all too eager to get some proper sleep.

Merton stamped his hooves again, arms crossed, and eyebrows lowered in a very alarming expression of barely repressed rage, but did not comment further and Rhegus—after exchanging one last glare with the Faun—turned his back on the whole company and strode away further up the beach.

Lucy would have followed him despite her exhaustion if it had been entirely clear from his manner that he wished to be alone. Instead, she contented herself with settling down atop a cloak Merton borrowed from one of the other guards and was asleep nearly as soon as she closed her eyes.

 _Her dreams were confused—jumbles of brilliant colour, flashes of light that blinded her, and occasional glimpses of faces and buildings she recognised. She saw again the walls of Cair Paravel hung with the black banners of mourning and Susan standing atop one of the parapets, her black gown billowing around her and the indistinct figure of a man standing behind her in the shadows. She was crying—Lucy realised—silently but eloquently, and as Lucy watched the man stepped forward, half into the light, and put a hand on Susan's shoulder._

 _She saw Peter next, as she had when had Aslan showed her the visions in the pool. He was sitting before an unfamiliar hearth with Brickle at his shoulder and the Centaur healer Menwy kneeling awkwardly next to him to avoid hitting her head on the low ceiling. His head was bowed forward into his hands and his shoulder seemed to be shaking with silent tears, but Lucy could see nothing that should have caused him such distress. The door to the room swung open, admitting a gust of wind and an unexpected torrent of rain, and she could just see—silhouetted against the stormy night beyond—a tall, thin figure stumbling across the threshold._

 _Next, she saw the sea, a boundless expanse of glimmering azure water stretching out before her—warm and welcoming. She felt the pulse of the waves in her blood, her heart beating in rhythm with the gentle wash of the tide against a sandy shore, and the Sea seemed to breath—as if it were a living thing. It was vast, beautiful, and so gentle that she would gladly have let the water drag her beneath its surface to the warm depths below. It was nothing to fear—it was like a mother calling out to her long-lost child, and every wave was a sigh of longing to be reunited with a long-separated part of itself._

 _The Sea did speak, she realised as she floated in the warmth it provided, and it spoke to her—whispering of things past and things yet to come, spinning fantastical worlds in the images that flashed behind her eyes, and sharing secrets that were strange and yet somehow familiar._

 _And she slept, and dreamed, and knew that when she woke the Sea would be silent—its words forgotten until they were needed._

 _12_ _th_ _. of Greenroof, 1012—Seventhday_

Despite her exhaustion of the previous night Lucy found herself waking in the morning silence just before sunrise. She sat up slowly, stretching stiff muscles and brushing the sand from her hair as best she could. If her gown had appeared tattered and her appearance disheveled the day before she was certain her gown was now filthy, and she appeared utterly disgraceful—at least, that was doubtless what Susan would have said. Personally, Lucy cared very little for her appearance and would have been perfectly content to sleep out of doors without access to a hairbrush forever.

Captain Rhegus too was awake, Lucy saw almost immediately once she had rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stood stiffly to walk along the beach. Merton, who seemed to be on watch nodded to her, and made as if to follow, but Lucy shook her head with a smile. It was clear that something had occurred between the Faun and the Sea Captain during the time she had been missing from their company, and she preferred to hear it from Rhegus first. It wasn't that she didn't trust Merton or value his opinion, but Rhegus was her friend and she had known him far longer.

Rhegus was sitting cross legged on the sand about twenty paces further up the beach, just beyond the reach of the tide. He looked exhausted, as if he hadn't slept at all—which seemed likely—and Lucy was reminded sharply of her vision. He looked nearly as worn and distressed as he had in the vision Aslan had showed her and Lucy found herself frowning despite the beauty of the morning. Whatever Aslan had meant to warn her about was clearly approaching quickly and she still did not know what the danger might be.

Still, she pushed away her uncertainty and smiled, hoping that a bright greeting would cheer him. "Good morning Captain!" For a moment he seemed not to hear her, then he nodded sharply in acknowledgement, but his strained expression did not ease—his eyes remained fixed on the distant, watery horizon.

 _Oh dear! I do hope it isn't anything too dreadful._ She dropped down ungracefully to sit beside him and dug her fingers into the cool sand, absentmindedly searching for shells. "Whatever is the matter Captain?"

He sighed audibly and fumbled in the pockets of his coat for his pipe, long fingers wrapping nervously around the unlit clay bowl. "Queen Lucy, I 'aven't been completely 'onest with ye, and for tha' I cry your pardon." His accent was more pronounced than she had ever heard it, clearly attesting to his agitation, and Lucy frowned—more in sympathy for his distress than in reaction to his words.

He sounded so sad, and sitting beside her with his shoulders slumped and gaze focused on the distance he looked so utterly dejected that it made her want to cry. Regardless of anything he was about to tell her, Rhegus was her friend and Lucy hated seeing anyone, particularly one of her friends, so upset. _Whatever it is I will still be his friend,_ she resolved silently.

"I told ye I left Doorn because o' a girl, an' I swear tha' bit was true, but—" he paused, staring more intently than ever at the watery horizon, and was silent so long that Lucy began to wonder if she should speak and offer what little reassurance she could. She was just opening her mouth to assure him that, regardless of anything he had done in the past they were still friends now, but before she could do so he sighed and went on—though it seemed to be with great effort.

"My father died when I was very young, ten—younger maybe, an' my mother followed 'im a year later. Orphans don't do well on their own in Narrowhaven, an' I would 'ave died if I 'adn't met a pirate captain who decided to take me on as 'is apprentice. Ye 'ave to understand, your majesty, tha' I didn't do anythin' very awful—just a bit o' small thievery, but it was enough for there to be a price on my 'ead. I was with 'em—the pirates tha' is—for nigh on fifteen years, an' I swear to ye tha' I never killed a man who wasn't trying to kill me an' I never stole from anyone who couldn't afford it." He paused again, fumbled in his pocket for tobacco and flint, seemed to remember at the last moment that he was in the presence of a lady and settled for clamping the stem of the unlit pipe between his teeth.

Lucy had yet to hear anything in his tale so terrible that it necessitated keeping it secret for fifteen years, though she supposed Peter and Edmund would have considered having a pirate at the heart of Cair Paravel to be a significant threat. _But really, who could truly blame him? It isn't as if he had much choice in becoming a pirate!_

"We didn't make port of'en, but when we did I was the one who went ashore. The rest o' the crew were all wanted for worse things than thievery, an' I was the best at stayin' out o' sight. I wasn't looking for trouble, I swear, but a couple o' guards recognised me an' thought they could make a tidy profit if they turned me in. Estelle, that's the girl I told ye about, Queen Lucy, saw me running from them an' said she wanted to help. She showed me where to hide, brought me food, an' even offered to take a message to my captain so they would wait for me until I could get out o' the city withou' being seen. I though' for sure she would turn me in, but she didn't—she didn't even seem to care tha' I was a pirate. She told me she wanted to leave Narrowhaven—" he paused again, and Lucy could have sworn she saw a glimmer of tears on his weathered face before he brushed a hand across his eyes impatiently. "Never mind tha' now," he continued sharply, though she knew his annoyance was directed at himself and not at her.

"Captain, it's alright if you don't want to tell me what happened—I don't need to know." She put a cautious hand on his arm and was somewhat reassured when he turned towards her with a reluctant smile. "Really, Captain, you needn't tell me anything. You're my friend and I trust you with my life—pirate or no."

"I thank ye for tha', Queen Lucy." He shook his head as if to clear it, and Lucy could see the effort it took for him to keep smiling. Perhaps it had always taken this much effort—perhaps he was so often merry because he felt he must be—and she was only now seeing him for who he truly was. Perhaps that thought ought to have frightened her and made her question what other secrets Rhegus might be concealing, but Lucy had always been unusually trusting—though she was not often wrong regarding a person's character.

She had trusted Tumnus from the first moment she saw him in the snowy woods, not because of anything he had done, but because of the look in his eyes. True, he had considered selling her to the Witch but in the end the inherent goodness that had led her to trust him had won out and he had saved her instead.

She had been afraid of Rhegus at first—there had always been a certain wildness in his eyes—but over time she had learned to recognise the strength of his character in spite of that. In all the years she had known him Lucy had never seen him angry without cause, had never witnessed him lose his temper, and on more than one occasion had watched as he risked his life for others without a second thought. _No,_ she determined with utter certainty. _Rhegus is someone I can trust, not someone who is keeping dangerous secrets._ After all, he was telling her the story of his past without being asked and she suspected that in some way he believed doing so would protect her, though from what she could not begin to guess. _But why is he telling me now?_

"Queen Lucy?" Lucy blinked, surprised, and realised that she had been silently staring at handful of sand and shells she had gathered up for quite some time. She shook herself, letting the sand run through her fingers—leaving only the shells laying on her filthy palm. _I really must stop getting lost in my own thoughts._

Rhegus was regarding her curiously, half smiling, and she saw a glimmer of his customary humour dancing in his eyes. _Well, at least my easily distracted nature serves some purpose,_ she reflected with rueful amusement. Usually her moments of distraction were limited to embroidery or etiquette lessons with Susan (which Lucy always found painfully dull), but clearly that was no longer the case.

"I'm sorry Captain, I was thinking of how I used to be a bit frightened of you." A moment later she clapped a hand over her mouth feeling her face flush. "Oh dear! I didn't mean to say that I had any reason to be!"

The corners of Rhegus' mouth twitched upwards into an amused smile and he chuckled quietly, shaking his head in amused bewilderment. "I can't quite imagine ye bein' afraid o' anything, Queen Lucy, let alone me. Was I so very frightening?"

Lucy considered the question for a moment—even though she knew he was deliberately changing their topic of conversation—and shook her head. "No, I don't believe you were, but Ed—King Edmund—always told me such wild stories of sailors and pirates and you seemed to fit into them very tidily. It helped a good deal when I grew taller," she added with a laugh, remembering how Rhegus had once towered over her—he was still a good deal taller than she was, but it was a less vast difference now.

He frowned slightly, eyebrows furrowing and nearly meeting as he examined his pipe intently. "I did wonder what your brother 'ad been tellin' ye. Ye see, I 'ad been in Cair Paravel no more than two days when King Edmund asked to see me. 'E was a lot shorter then too, but I don't think I've ever been so frighten'd in my life."

"Frightened? Of Edmund?!" Susan—Peter too for that matter—always told her it was terribly bad manners to interrupt someone while they were speaking, but Lucy couldn't help it. The thought of Edmund, her sarcastic, often grumpy and brooding brother frightening anyone—except an enemy soldier or a prisoner on trial—was simply too surprising for her to remain silent.

Rhegus grinned somewhat sheepishly and returned the pipe stem—which had apparently passed his minute inspection—to its customary place between his teeth. "Ye'd be surprised, your majesty, by just how frightening your brother can be to a guilty man. I took one look at 'im an' knew it was no use trying to keep secrets from 'im—the way 'e looked at me made it seem like 'e already knew them all anyway. O' course 'e didn't, but that didn't stop me from telling 'im everything. How I 'ad been a pirate, how I 'ad a price on my 'ead in the Lone Islands and fled to Narnia to start over, an' the whole time 'e just looked at me. 'E was rather shocked I suppose, apparently 'e 'ad only wanted to ask me what I thought about 'is plans for building a navy, but 'e was very interested to 'ear what I 'ad to say about pirates. I think I'm very lucky to 'ave walked out of 'is study a free man."

Lucy stared at him in shock—unsure if she wanted to laugh or shout at her infuriating brother the next time she saw him. His wild stories about pirate and ghostly mist on the high seas made much more sense now—he had obviously been trying to discourage her from sailing, had been tempering her love of the sea with uncertainty until he could be sure that she would be safe with Rhegus.

"He did trust you though, eventually, or you wouldn't have remained a free man." She couldn't quite imagine Edmund as a terrifying figure capable of making others reveal their darkest secrets merely by looking at them, but she was very familiar with his reluctance to trust and the consequences of failing to gain his trust.

Everyone in Narnia—and the surrounding kingdoms too, or that matter, knew that three things were necessary to remain in the Narnian court for any length of time: General Orieus' approval, the High King's tolerance of their presence—however reluctant he might be to tolerate their conversation—and the Just King's trust. If Rhegus had been allowed to remain then Edmund must have decided he was no threat, and more than that was worthy of at least some degree of trust—the fact that Edmund allowed Rhegus to accompany Lucy made the degree of that trust undeniably plain.

Rhegus nodded solemnly as he picked up a seashell that Lucy had recently discarded and twirled it between his scarred fingers. "He does, an' for tha' I will always be grateful. An' 'e kept my secret, for tha' I owe 'im a far greater debt than I can ever repay. Speaking o' my secret," he sighed and tossed the seashell away with a distracted shake of his head. "I know ye don't think I need to tell ye, but I do. Ye see, Queen Lucy, Estelle's father—well, it's rather more complicated than a bit o' harmless courtship. Estelle wanted to leave Narrowhaven, she wanted me to take 'er with me when we sailed again, but o' course I couldn't. The seas are no place for a 'igh born lady—no offense meant to ye, your majesty."

Lucy nodded in acknowledgement, though she personally regarded sailor's superstitions concerning the bad luck brought by having women on board a ship as utter nonsense.

"I couldn't take 'er with me, but I did go back t' see 'er every time we made port. When 'er father found out who 'er young man was 'e followed 'er when she came to meet me. 'E didn't care tha' there nothing improper about our meetings; I was a pirate an' that was all 'e needed to know. I 'ad a price on my 'ead an' 'e would 'ave killed me, so I ran. I sailed with the pirates for a few years more, but I couldn't shake the feeling tha' everything would 'ave been different if I'd been an honest sailor, so when I 'eard Narnia was free an' under human rule again I though' I'd try my 'and at being just tha'. I knew I could never go back, never see Estelle again, but it felt right to try bein' honest, an' ye know the rest, your majesty."

Lucy nodded again, sifting through another handful of sand and collecting the few unbroken shells she found in the pockets of her dress. Rhegus' story made sense, it was certainly a sad one, but she still didn't quite understand why he was telling all of it now. That, together with Merton's open hostility towards him, was enough to make Lucy suspect that there was more he wanted to tell her but did not know how. She waited, using the hem of her skirt to polish away the remaining sand that clung to a few of the shells, and silently trusting that Rhegus would tell her whatever was necessary—when he was ready.

"There are two things more, Queen Lucy, tha' ye should know. Firstly—well, not necessarily by importance—Estelle's father—" he coughed, ran a hand through his hair, and shifted his weight uneasily. "Estelle's father is—tha' is to say, 'e was—a lord in Narrowhaven."

"Is he dead?" _Will I never learn not to interrupt?_

"No, not as such." He coughed again, obviously unhappy with the information he was about to share, and Lucy couldn't help being terribly curious. She abandoned the shells and propped her chin on one hand, regarding Rhegus with what she was certain was an imploring expression.

"He was a lord, but now—well, there's no easy way for me t' say this, but now 'e's the governor."

"Athelstan?!" _And to think I actually felt sorry for him when I read his letter!_ "Captain, why didn't you tell me you couldn't go to Narrowhaven?"

Rhegus grinned and shook his head, appearing rather embarrassed. "It didn't really matter all tha' much. I planned t' stay on the _Hyaline_ an' avoid confronting 'im. I suppose now it doesn't matter at all anyway—seein' as we 'ave no way o' getting there—which brings me t' the second thing ye need to know. The pirates that took the _Hyaline—_ "

This time when he paused Lucy was certain she knew what he was going to tell her next, but she bit her tongue to keep from interrupting him yet again. _Perhaps I am learning at last._

"They were my old shipmates, Queen Lucy, an' they recognised me. Tha's why Merton's so displeased wi' me, an' that's why I 'ad to tell ye now. I wanted ye to 'ear the truth from me—not 'im."

Lucy nodded, considering what she had just heard—there was something, like a tickle at the back of her mind that she couldn't quite place. Rhegus said it didn't matter now that Estelle's father was Governor Athelstan because they had no ship—no way to reach Narrowhaven—but she knew just as certainly that she _must_ reach Narrowhaven. Peter was relying on her, and besides, if she didn't find a way to send word back to Cair Paravel, telling everyone that she was alright, Peter was likely to come storming out after her.

 _The last thing I need is to prove that I'm completely incapable of managing things on my own. I'm not a child anymore, and if I want to prove that then I need to come up with a better plan than sitting here waiting to be rescued. If only I could somehow use the pirates to my advantage._ Edmund would have been able to come up with a plan, of that she was certain, as for Peter—well, she supposed he wouldn't have found himself stranded in the first place, and Susan…Lucy wasn't entirely certain what Susan could have done, but surely it would not have involved remaining on an "uncivilised" island any longer than was absolutely unavoidable.

 _If only it were anyone else! There's absolutely nothing special about me, nothing I can use—_

" _I 'ave yet to meet a spirit alive capable of 'ating ye, Queen Lucy,"_ Rhegus had told her aboard the _Splendour Hyaline_ barely three days before. Lucy was still rather skeptical regarding the truth of that statement, but assuming it was true it might provide a very easy way to solve all of her troubles.

"Captain, did you mean what you said—about not having met anyone capable of hating me?" She felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment simply repeating the compliment and wished, not for the first time, that her face did not so easily betray her emotions.

Rhegus seemed to consider the question for a moment and then he nodded. "That I did, your majesty. Ye 'ave a way of making people love ye, and those too foolish to love ye are still clever enough not to hate ye."

"And your old shipmates? Are they foolish?"

Rhegus whistled softly between his teeth, his expression hovering somewhere between shock and amusement. "I wouldn' say they're particularly clever, Queen Lucy, but no, not foolish. Ye cannot be considering what I think ye are though. Please, Queen Lucy, it's more than my life's worth t' let ye get mixed up wi' pirates. The 'igh King would 'ave my 'ead on a block."

Lucy nearly laughed at the idea of Peter having anyone executed merely for failing to stop her from doing something that was both dangerous and potentially foolish. In fact, she wasn't entirely sure where the idea that Peter had ever executed _anyone_ came from—exiled and imprisoned yes, but Narnian justice was rarely bloody, a fact that might more accurately be attributed to Edmund than to Peter.

"No, he won't," she assured him firmly, standing and brushing the sand from her skirts. "And if you think I am considering having you help me convince your old shipmates to take us to Doorn, then you are entirely correct. Amathia—that's the Sea Woman who found me—told me that we aren't the first crew they've stranded here, and I highly doubt we will be the last. When they come back do you think you can speak with them?"

Rhegus threw up his hands in a universal signal of surrender, though he was still shaking his head in protest. "I can, they wanted me t' go with them when they left this time, but o' course I wanted nothin' to do with 'em. I can speak t' them, I might even be able t' convince them that I need safe passage t' Doorn, but as for the rest o' the crew—" he shrugged. "Well now, Queen Lucy, I suppose that's up to ye."

Lucy nodded, already grinning at the prospect of being able to tell Peter and Edmund that she had negotiated with pirates. Susan, well, she didn't plan on telling Susan anymore about it than she absolutely had to. _If the plan works. But of course it will,_ she reminded herself firmly. _Aslan is on our side._

 **Okay, I already know there are a billion grammar errors...they will be fixed in less than twenty four hours but i was already behind on posting so I wanted to make sure I got this chapter up today! In the meantime I am terribly sorry for the errors and I hope you all enjoyed this chapter anyway. Leave me a review if you can :-) Reviews definitely inspire me to keep writing and I might even post the next chapter on time!**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	14. Queen First

**Hi! It's been an abysmally long time since I posted and I am so very sorry for that! I could spend time making groveling apologies, but since it's already been nearly a month I'll just get on with the chapter. I hope people are still reading!**

 **Aslan's Daughter: So glad I'm doing a good job of portraying Lucy :-). Also, your idea is not too prescriptive at all...i was actually considering doing something similar anyway, but definitely will now that I know someone would like to see that happen!**

 **Rosazul66: Thanks for reading! Sorry it's been so long, hope you don't mind that this is Susan's chapter...:-)**

 _13_ _th_ _. of Greenroof, 1012—Eighthday_

Both Lucy and Edmund seemed incapable of keeping tidy rooms, Susan mused dejectedly as she pushed open the door to her younger sister's bedroom. The general messiness of Lucy's room however shared very little in common with what she was certain she would have found in Edmund's. Edmund had a terrible habit of leaving books and papers strewn about—covering every available surface—but Lucy did not limit herself to such simplicity. True, there were several heavy volumes of stories and history tossed haphazardly onto her desktop, but the majority of the disaster was caused by clothes and enormous bouquets of half dried flowers hanging from the wall, the ceiling, and even the furniture.

Susan was very familiar with Lucy's habit of collecting flowers every summer and drying them to brighten up the castle in the winter—and she suspected that the habit was another of Lucy's nearly constant efforts to keep Edmund from brooding—but she had yet to understand why the process needed to be completed in Lucy's bedchamber. Although, she supposed Cook would have been less than pleased to find them in the kitchens, and even Lucy knew better than to infuriate Cook. _Had known better._

"I suppose it hardly matters now," she remarked to the empty room, noting with a sinking sadness that a fine layer of dust was already beginning to coat everything. "I wouldn't have scolded you for it if I had known you would be gone so soon." She sniffled into her lace edged handkerchief and gingerly moved aside an enormous bouquet of roses so she could sit on the edge of the unmade bed.

The servants it seemed had long since given up on their attempts to keep the chambers in any semblance of order, and now Susan suspected that they viewed the rooms as nearly hallowed ground and everything within as sacred relics of their beloved queen's life. Personally, Susan could have very easily done without such relics if only Lucy were somehow restored to them.

Sitting there, surrounded by her sister's things with the brilliant late afternoon sunlight streaming through the open curtains, Susan wasn't quite sure what she felt. She had cried so much that there seemed to be no tears left, no more room for abject grief, and now she was left with a terrible sense of emptiness—as if there were suddenly an unfillable void in her life.

She hated herself even for thinking it, but Edmund's death was more expected and somehow easier to bear because of that. She had been preparing—however unwillingly—for the day he would fail to return from one of his wild missions for years. True, that preparation offered little consolation to her now, but it did serve to make his loss less shocking. Lucy though—she had never considered that _Lucy_ might leave one day never to return—such a thing had been as unthinkable as the sun failing to rise in the East.

The room was stuffy, the dust-thick air nearly choking her, and she shook her head, stumbling to her feet in a sudden flurry of anger. She nearly collided with a large Badger in the hallway, barely recognising Sundance the Librarian, and not pausing to apologise despite his low growl of annoyance as the stack of books he was carrying scattered to the floor. Stopping to apologise and help him would have been both gentle and gracious, but Susan did not find either of those words appropriate to describe herself in that particular moment. Lucy had always been the one to bring out the best in her, to cheer her with a sunny smile and calm her flashes of temper with a cup of tea and ready kindness. Lucy was a ray of sun in the darkest storm, and she was gone, her light extinguished in the very moment when Susan needed her most. It was selfish, she knew, to think of herself at such a time, but it was somehow easier to think of herself than of Lucy—to bemoan her own loss, rather than imagine her sister, her friend, sinking beneath the waves of an unforgiving sea.

She barely took note of where her feet were taking her until she threw open the heavy door that led to the ramparts atop the East tower and was met with a gust of chill wind, blowing salt-scented up from the sea. She shivered, pulling the light shawl she wore closer around her shoulders and fighting back the tears that threatened to tear their way from her already raw throat.

The tower was her customary refuge on the rare occasions when she could break away from her duties and the still rarer occasions when she allowed herself to do so, but today there was little comfort to be found in the silence there. Evening was approaching, and the air was chill, damp, and somehow oppressive, the wind tore at her hair and gown and snapped open the banners flying from the ramparts with enough force that they were in danger of tearing free of their fastenings. _Four banners, four standards, four rulers._

Her eyes stung and she averted her gaze swiftly, refusing to lose her tenuous control over her tears, and looked down. The path below ran along the cliff's edge and was unusually crowded with a slow-moving parade of silent, dejected figures—Narnians making a grief-stricken pilgrimage to pay final homage to their fallen rulers. Never mind that there were no bodies to lay to rest, there would be a funeral—it was only proper—but without the necessity of haste Susan was loathe to make preparations. _Better to wait,_ she told herself. Waiting would allow time for distant friends to make their way to Cair Paravel, perhaps her suitors would even have learned to display some modicum of decency and departed by then—this was rather unlikely, but that did not stop her from fervently wishing for its occurrence.

The banners whipped sharply in the wind, the sound drawing her eyes unwillingly to them. Peter's, a roaring, golden lion on a field of rich, dark blue that mimicked the northern sky at midnight bordered by intricate patterns of gold, her own, a drawn bow beneath a golden sun set upon a field of white, and the other two banners that brought a fresh wave of tears to her eyes.

Lucy's banner was customarily a white gull flying across a field of interwoven silver and blue, recreating the colour and shimmer of a summer sea, now the banner was black—the gull appearing ghostly in the fading light of evening. _She deserved better,_ Susan thought bitterly, though she wasn't entirely certain whether she meant her banner or her life—perhaps both.

Edmund's had been changed very little by the colours of mourning—silver scales above crossed swords set against a background of green so dark it appeared almost black had been changed minutely to a field of pure black behind the silver. She doubted she would ever look at it again without remembering Peter's look of shocked horror as he showed her Edmund's signet ring, engraved with the same pattern, lying on his cut and bloodied palm.

Grief had never been a particularly easy emotion for Peter—he reacted first with cold anger and shock, masking his pain and grief until it overcame him utterly. Looking back at her own reaction Susan felt vaguely disgusted by how quickly she had lost control—she had broken, sobbed and screamed, locking herself in her chambers and shouting at anyone who dared approach her. That was no way for a queen to behave—Peter at least had grieved in private, if he had allowed himself to grieve at all—and she knew she needed to be stronger. She needed to find her shattered mask of control, to somehow rebuild, reforge it into one so strong that it would never falter again.

Lucy and Edmund would become memories, distant and treasured like the dim, warm recollection of her mother's smile and the still more distant memory of her father's voice—never forgotten but faded and ephemeral. Peter would grieve eventually, she knew him to well to doubt that his strength would waver, his control shatter, and he would fall into abject depression until his anger returned—all-consuming as he rode out to wage some distant war. Without Edmund at his side Susan couldn't quite believe that he would return—Edmund was always the calm that sought to balance Peter's rage, and when that failed he had never hesitated to throw himself between his brother and danger. Without him, there would come a day when Peter rode to war and did not return, instead doomed to bleed out his life on some mercy forsaken battlefield.

She would be the one to endure, to outlast the darkness that would shroud the land in the wake of such incalculable loss, and if that was her burden to bear then it was high time she stopped moping and got back to the business at hand. She straightened her shoulders briskly, wiping away the traitorous tear that had escaped her left eye with the edge of her shawl and brushing a few miniscule wrinkles from the fabric of her gown. Her hair was a disaster, of that she was certain, but there was little she could do about that until she returned to her chambers.

 _I'll send for Jala, she can-_

The door in front of her that led up from the stairs flew open, the wind catching it as it swung wide and slamming it back against the wall with a deafening crash, and a moment later Peter emerged from the opening. His face was flushed, his was breathing rapid, as if he had just run all the way from his chambers, and however detached Susan had recently determined she must be she could not fail to notice the pained set of his jaw and the heavily pronounced limp that indicated his ankle was not as well healed as he would have everyone believe.

"Peter James Pevensie! Sit down this instant!" There were a grand total of two people (herself included) who could (and did) speak to the High King in such a fashion without risking an imminent and explosive display of annoyance. Orieus (the only other person who would not risk Peter's wrath by speaking as she had) rarely exercised his ability to do so, but Susan certainly had no such reluctance—not that she often expected to be listened to, but that was hardly the point.

As a matter of fact, Susan had not been particularly hopeful that Peter would obey her command, she had spoken more out of habit than expectation, and was rather surprised when he smiled, with the sheepish air of a scolded schoolboy, and dropped down to sit with his back against the parapet.

"I need to talk to you."

 _Obviously, otherwise you would likely be moping in the privacy of your own room._ She hadn't missed the smell of strong wine that clung to him, or the bloody cuts on his hands, and it was obvious enough that he had reached the stage of his grief where loss had overcome his anger, however temporarily.

 _It doesn't make sense._ He had left his room, he was relatively calm, if somewhat out of breath, and hardly looked the part of a grieving elder brother. Susan had never been very fond of puzzles, particularly those which failed to obey logic, and she was currently in no mood to speculate about Peter's strange behaviour. She sighed, hoping her annoyance was conveyed clearly enough, and sat next to him, crossing her legs under her and staring determinedly across the tower's flattened top and down to the woods beyond. She was in control, she was calm, and she could remain that way as long as she did not see her own grief reflected in her brother's expression.

"Well?"

"I spoke with Aslan." She glanced over sharply, despite her earlier determination, and saw that, despite his disheveled and bloody appearance, he did seem to be surrounded by the faint, golden glow that often accompanied Aslan's presence and sometimes lingered even after He had gone.

 _Or possibly he's simply drunk and I am desperate to see something that isn't there._ "And?"

He didn't answer immediately, instead settling more comfortably against the parapet and clasping his cut, bruised hands around one knee. He was thinking, considering, determining what to tell her and, quite possibly, what _not_ to tell her, and Susan found that she was in danger of becoming extremely cross.

 _What could possibly require such careful consideration?_ He certainly hadn't appeared to consider so carefully before telling her that their brother was dead. _That isn't fair of you,_ she told herself sharply. It wasn't his fault, she mustn't blame him, and yet she did—whether she wanted to admit it to herself or not.

"Lucy is alive." The words seemed to strike her with the same force as the news of Lucy's death had, stealing her breath and setting her heart to racing in an uneven rhythm, but she would not lose control, not this time. This time she would behave in a logical matter, and logic dictated that people did not simply come back from the dead.

Peter, it seemed, was not done speaking, though he had paused as if waiting for her to react. When she did not, he sighed, apparently resigned to her reticence, and continued. "I set sail for Calormen in the morning."

That hardly seemed the best course of action given what he had just told her, and Susan frowned in spite of her recent determination to remain aloof. "Why Calormen? If Lucy is alive then shouldn't you be going after her, not searching for pointless revenge? That seems the logical course of action."

Peter sighed audibly at her mention of logic but nodded. "Ordinarily I would agree with you, but Aslan told me to go to Calormen and look for Edmund. He said Lucy would have her own path, but He promised that she would return to us at the end of it."

"So Edmund is alive as well?" She tried not to sound overly skeptical but judging from Peter's frown she didn't do a particularly good job of it. She did not yet dare to hope, but her heart thudded frantically, struggling against the rationality that drove her skepticism. They were dead. Peter had been so certain that Edmund was gone, the Swallow had _seen_ Lucy die—such evidence could not lightly be ignored, but if Aslan had said… _if._

"He didn't say that precisely." He shifted uncomfortably, clasping and unclasping his hands, nervous energy practically crackling in the air around him, and Susan bit back a cutting remark concerning his own lack of precision when speaking. It wouldn't do any good to start an argument.

"Aslan said I have to go to Calormen immediately to look for Edmund, and that he will tell me what needs to be done, although—" he broke off, frowning down at his interlocked fingers and Susan knew there was something he was failing to tell her.

"Although?" she prompted after a moment, trying not to allow her own frown to become too obvious.

"He said that Edmund is neither dead nor alive, and what I am supposed to make of that I really can't imagine." He gave her a pleading look, as if she had answers he did not, and that was the last straw.

"Peter, isn't it possible you were dreaming?" She tried to say it kindly, even though she wanted to shout, wanted to shake his shoulders in frustration and call him a fool.

He shook his head emphatically, almost desperately. "I wasn't Su, Aslan _was_ here. He told me what I needed to do, and Lucy, at least, is alright—He promised me that."

If it was true… _if_ , and that was the problem, because how could it be true? She trusted Aslan, was ready to accept His words, but Peter…She loved her brother, trusted him with her life and the protection of Narnia, and over the years they had learned to work together, to listen to each other, and rarely argued as they once had, but still Peter was not necessarily the most reliable source of information. _Especially if he is drunk, which he may well be, and I can't say I blame him if he is._

"Couldn't you have imagined it?" she persisted quietly, refusing to look over and see the expression of betrayal she was certain she would find on his face. Instead she focused on the distant horizon, squinting through the dusk until the blurred line where horizon and forest met came into sharper focus. There were figures moving there, more Narnians making their way to Cair Paravel, and she blinked sharply, trying to clear the persistent haze of tears from her eyes. "Couldn't you have dreamt that Aslan appeared to you and told you what you wanted to hear?"

He sighed, and out of the corner of her eye she saw him roll his shoulders in a motion vaguely reminiscent of a shrug. "I might give some credit to that if He _had_ told me what I wanted to hear." He sounded vaguely bitter, and suddenly weary, as if the great weight of grief which seemed to have lifted slightly had settled back on his shoulders. "But Ed—Su, you can't believe that's what I wanted to hear."

No, she couldn't, and he sounded so certain that she almost believed him. She wanted to believe him but how could she? If he was wrong, it would be so much worse to have been given hope only for it to be proven unfounded and have reality come crashing back, destroying any semblance of control she had regained. And, even if it was true, shouldn't he still send someone after Lucy, or better yet, go himself rather than chasing a vague pronouncement that might mean anything, or worse, might mean nothing at all?

Susan said nothing of what she was thinking, however, painfully aware that it would do no good to argue with her brother when he was so determined. The Narnians had always considered Edmund to be the most stubborn of their monarchs, and it was true that he was often terribly stubborn, sometimes to the point of foolishness, but Susan understood, as few others did, that Peter could be far more stubborn than anyone else she knew. He had made up his mind, that much was obvious from the stubborn set of his shoulders, and he had come to her, not for council, but to inform her of his plans—regardless of whether or not she approved.

"Do as you will," she said shortly. "Aslan guard you," she added a moment later, more kindly when a look of hurt flashed briefly across Peter's face and was certain that an equally brief expression of regret had crossed her own features.

"Brickle and Menwy will be accompanying me—Orieus is to remain behind to guard you." His voice was strained and Susan gritted her teeth, wishing she could be less distant, wishing she could throw her arms around him and beg him not to go, not to leave her alone with her grief and the crushing weight of her duty to Narnia.

"It's probably best that you tell no one this news, or where I'm going. I don't plan to announce my presence in Tashbaan, and there's no use raising the people's hopes if—" he left the sentence incomplete, hanging heavily in the air between them, but Susan understood what he had left unsaid. _"If I don't find Edmund; if I don't come back."_ It made sense, in fact, it was the most sensible thing he had said since their conversation began, and Susan nodded silently.

"One last thing," he scrambled clumsily to his feet and offered a hand to help her. Susan ignored the offered aid and rose with far more grace than her brother, brushing the wrinkles from her skirt automatically. "If Sallowpad returns from Tashbaan while I'm gone send a Sparrow after me."

Susan found herself nodding blankly, swallowing back her tears with difficulty, fists clenched in the folds of her dress to keep her hands from shaking. _Don't make a fool of yourself—you are a queen first and a sister second, you have no other choice._

He regarded her gravely, seeming to understand—perhaps for the first time—the necessity for her withdrawn behaviour, and put a cautious hand on her shoulder. "I know you will look after Narnia in my absence but promise me you won't forget to look after yourself as well, sister."

 _I can't. I can't promise you that._ But she nodded, not trusting herself to speak, knowing that if she did she would no longer be able to hold back her tears.

He didn't say goodbye, only nodded in return and limped heavily back through the door that led to the winding staircase. Susan bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, fists clenching until her fingernails dug into the skin of her palms. _Don't go. Please don't go, Peter—I can't lose you too._ But she said nothing, and the door swung shut behind him with a terribly final sounding thud. _Don't leave me here alone._ But even if she had spoken there would have been no one left to hear her plea.

 **It's a little short, sorry about that, but at least I got something posted! Please leave me a review :-) I swear I will do my best to be better about updating in future, but I'm not sure when the next chapter will be posted. Thank you so much for reading and all the lovely reviews :-)**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	15. In the City of Tashbaan

**And yet again I find myself apologising for the delay in posting this chapter...oh well, this is an extra long chapter, so hopefully that will make up for it!**

 **NarniaGirl: So glad you are still reading and eagerly awaiting new updates! I can promise to never leave this story for a year between updates, so you needn't worry about that :-). Let me know who you feel most bad for by the end of this chapter...**

 **Rose: I would apologise for breaking your streak of not reading fanfiction...but I'm too flattered by the fact that you are reading mine! I always love it when people recommend my stories so thank you for reviewing and thank you to your friend as well! Hope you enjoy this chapter as well :-)**

 **Aslan's Daughter: Glad to see you are still reading despite my abysmal update speed! I am glad you found the human portrayal of the Pevensies encouraging, I try to write realistic characters and I am very glad to hear that it is working! As far as the Swallows as messengers go...I actually do have an explanation for that! Unfortunately it is not in this chapter, but it is in an upcoming chapter since an Archenlander has the same question you do...**

 _20_ _th_ _. of Greenroof, 1012—Seventhday_

The wind was colder than Peter had expected it to be. The few other times he had visited Tashbaan in summer the whole city had lain sweltering beneath a haze of dry, still heat, but this time they seemed to have arrived during an unusually rainy time of the summer. Clouds were massing, low and grey above the swirling dust of the desert to the North, and Peter scowled at them as if he could hold back the coming storm with the force of his displeasure at its existence.

The journey to Calormen had been far from pleasant, an exhausting, breathless gallop to Anvard where they had stopped barely long enough for the Centauress Menwy to catch her breath and for Peter to find a fresh horse before pushing on through the night as swiftly as wisdom allowed. The desert had been worse—merciless heat and scorching sun by day, bone numbing cold by night, and the strange, warping of distance that that was so common in the wide, open places of the world.

The first day in the desert they had seemed to make no progress and gain no ground, the mountains behind them had barely seemed further away at twilight than they had at dawn and Peter had found himself near despair more times than he wanted to admit. It had only been the steady, calm presence of Menwy, and strangely Brickle's nervous energy, which had kept him from acting foolishly and becoming lost in wasteland of sand. It might not have been strictly wise to enter Calormen in secret in the company of such conspicuous Narnians as a Dwarf and a Centauress, but Peter knew now that he had chosen wisely.

Menwy, who was one of Orieus' kin, was arguably the most skilled healer in all of Narnia, and Brickle, despite his high stung nature and lack of stealth, was the only member of the court—excepting Sallowpad who was in Calormen already—who seemed to know nearly as much about Edmund's business as Edmund did himself. It had been Brickle who directed Peter to the house of Lemesh, who seemed to be a sort of Calormene spymaster in Edmund's employ, and Brickle who had suggested a place where he and Menwy could remain unseen while Peter searched through the more highly populated areas of the city. And yet, despite Brickle's aid, Edmund's own papers, and Peter's determination they had found nothing in three days of frantic searching, careful questions, and more than one loss of temper on Peter's part.

Now, standing among the shadowy shapes that Brickle had called the "Tombs of the Ancient Kings" (though to Peter they looked more like giant stone beehives than tombs) at the edge of the desert with a storm approaching he felt painfully close to giving up. No one seemed to know—more likely no one was willing to tell him even if they did know—where Obridesh was, if he was truly out of favour with the Tisroc, or if there had been any news of captured Northern spies. Peridan and Sallowpad seemed to have disappeared as effectively as Edmund had himself and there was no whisper of news, even in the drunken tavern gossip.

 _Even if Ed was alive when I left Cair Paravel there's no reason to believe he still is._ It was a grim thought and Peter scowled out at the desert still more angrily, his hand clenching around Rhindon's hilt so hard that his knuckles ached. He preferred simple enemies, ones he could fight, ones he could kill to save his brother, not shadowy threats that lurked and tricked, lied and stole, and then disappeared back into whatever hole they had crawled out of. Enemies of that sort were Edmund's domain, and if even he was outmatched and in danger—or worse dead—what hope did Peter have of succeeding against Obridesh?

The sound of hooves on sand and rock startled him from his brooding and he half turned to see Menwy trotting towards him, a rather sea sick looking Brickle clinging to her back. She had carried the poor fellow all the way from Cair Paravel, but he still looked terribly distressed at being so far above his beloved Earth. Peter smiled in spite of his ill humour at the expression of relief on Brickle's face when Menwy stopped and he slid from her back as quickly as could possibly be considered safe. He landed in a rather undignified heap on the sand, scrambled to his feet with a muffled curse, and stumped away, still grumbling inaudibly and brushing the sand from his beard. Menwy watched him impassively, although Peter privately suspected she had grown rather fond of Brickle on their journey from Narnia.

"We have searched as near the river as we can without being seen from the riverboats and waterside gardens," she told him gravely, bringing his attention back to the topic at hand. He felt a shiver run up his back between his shoulder blades at her words—at what she had not said. _To see if a body had washed ashore. "Traitors are often thrown into the river in Tashbaan,"_ he remembered Edmund telling him once, sounding rather more cheerful than Peter had thought appropriate. _"So they do not defile the flames by burning or the land by being buried there."_

"And?" Surely, she would have told him if… _if what?_

"We found nothing."

The wave of relief that swept over him was staggering and he drew in a deep, shuddering breath forcing his grip on Rhindon to relax slightly. It wasn't as if the sword would be much help anyway. It didn't mean anything, that they had found nothing, and yet it meant everything. There was no body, and while there was no body there was still hope, still a chance—however slim—that Edmund would be found alive. It had been six days, six days since Aslan had told him his brother was not dead—six days in which that could have changed—but he could still hope.

The wind gusted strongly, whipping Menwy's wild dark hair into an inky cloud and tearing at the worn edges of Peter's cloak. He shuddered again—the wind brought a chill from the storm massing in the clouds above the desert, and with it came the stench of death.

Menwy seemed to smell it too. She raised her head, face tilted upwards towards the leaden sky and scudding clouds, and her eyes seemed to lose focus. Peter remembered suddenly that she was not only a healer, but a seer as well, and waited, barely daring to breath, as she stared up at the sky without seeming to really see it. After a long moment she shifted her weight, seeming to come back to herself and released her breath in a long sigh.

"The vulture circles," she said in a sonorous tone, her eyes still slipping in and out of focus. "He rides the storm and death follows in his wake. Beware, oh king, for tonight one will fall even as another rises." She shook her head, as if to clear it, and her eyes focused, fixing on Peter's face with startling intensity.

"What do you mean?" he knew it was of little use to ask, seers rarely remembered what they had said during their trances and even fewer were able to offer any explanation for their words, but there was a burning frustration clawing at his throat, forcing the question—however futile—from him. _More riddles, more vague pronouncements of doom—am I never to receive a clear answer?_ It was infuriating.

Menwy shook her head, appearing almost sorrowful, and pawed at the sandy ground uneasily with one foreleg. "That I do not know, would that I did High King, for such an answer would likely ease your worry greatly." She shook her mane of dark hair in frustration, not at himself, Peter sensed, but rather at the whole situation. He nodded, sharing her feeling of annoyance. The whole mess had been a very confused one from the very start, since he had found the papers in Edmund's room, and perhaps even before that, since he had last confronted Obridesh in Tashbaan so many months before. _If only I could have cut his head off, then and there, and saved us all this trouble._ Problems that could not be solved by violent and decisive action proved endlessly frustrating for Peter—they tended to be messy, complicated affairs that were not easily solved.

A distant trumpet sounded, heralding the quickly approaching closing of the city gates as the first drops of rain began to fall. Menwy shook herself, as if to dispel the lingering tendrils of vision, and swished her tail decisively. "You must return to the inn, your majesty, and if I may make the suggestion it would be wise to take Brickle with you tonight—you may have need of him before dawn."

Peter nodded without comment. If Menwy thought it wise, then she was probably right and would likely not be able to articulate the reason behind her suggestion if he questioned it. He turned to pick his way back through the shadowy shapes of the tombs, doing his best to ignore the prickly feeling at nape of his neck as he walked in front of the gaping, mouth-like entrances to the tombs. He did not like this place and could not quite shake the feeling, however foolish, that anything might be lying in wait within the tombs, waiting to spring out and drag him down into the darkness. He felt very foolish admitting it, even to himself. Edmund would have laughed at him, Peter, High King of Narnia, fearless on the field of battle, being afraid of long dead Calormenes. He shook himself and hurried on. He would gladly have endured Edmund's teasing if only his brother was safely by his side instead of missing and likely in great danger.

"Brickle!" He pulled his cloak closer as he called to the Dwarf—the rain was coming down in earnest now and he hoped Brickle had not wandered too far away, he didn't fancy being stuck outside the city gates in the approaching storm. It was bad enough that Menwy had to stay out in the weather, but there was little that could be done about that.

To his relief Brickle melted out of the shadows, shuffling his feet and tugging on his beard—Peter rather marveled that he still _had_ a beard considering how often he tugged bits of it out.

"Menwy said you ought to return to the inn with me tonight." From the start Peter had hated the thought of staying in an inn, however unpleasant, while Brickle and Menwy were forced to remain outside the city like fugitives but Menwy had insisted with a hint of the same fire that Orieus, who was her nephew, occasionally displayed when giving orders. Peter, regardless of being the High King knew better than to waste his breath arguing with a determined Centaur.

Brickle nodded shortly, though he appeared rather dubious at the prospect. "What of the Calormenes, your majesty?"

As he spoke a great gust of wind crashed against them, bringing with it a shower of pelting, icy rain that made Peter tug up the hood of his cloak and grit his teeth in annoyance as the cold droplets struck him across the face with stinging force. "I doubt anyone will want to be out in this weather," he remarked, allowing his own annoyance at being out in it to show in his tone. "Besides, I've paid the innkeeper well enough not to ask too many questions." _Thank the Lion for the greed of Calormene innkeepers—Calormenes in general really._ He had learned recently just how much of their relations with Calormen were built on a network of carefully calculated bribes, and—while he didn't strictly approve of the practice of bribing foreign government officials—he did have to admit that it proved mostly effective.

The city gates were already beginning to swing ponderously shut by the time Peter and Brickle reached them and slipped though, their presence going unremarked in the gaggle of farmers clamouring to leave and road weary travelers anxious to not be caught out in the storm. Once through the gates the crowd thinned, no longer the press of jostling humanity it had been immediately inside the gates, instead a trickle of hurrying figures in the otherwise deserted streets.

The storm had begun in earnest now, the wind gusting through the narrow, foul selling streets with enough force that it nearly lifted Brickle off his feet. Sheets of rain blew sideways into their faces, soaking Peter's hair and making the escaping strands of Brickle's beard stick untidily to the front of his traveling cloak. Lightning split the sky, followed by a crash of thunder so loud and near that it made Peter's head ache.

He found himself seized by an absurd desire to laugh. If his people could only see him now, their king trudging through the slums of Calormen resembling nothing so much as a drowned rat, they would hardly treat him with the awed deference that he had become accustomed to. He almost wished they could see him like this, see him at less than his best, perhaps then they would expect less of him, perhaps then his faults would seem less failings and more typically human. Of course, such thoughts did him little good—there was no one to observe him except Brickle and Peter doubted that the faithful, if somewhat clumsy, Dwarf would be bearing tales of Peter's ordinariness back to the rest of the Narnians.

 _Ordinary,_ he thought somewhat wryly. _I haven't thought of myself as ordinary in over a decade._ It was difficult to feel ordinary when you ruled a whole country from a carved throne, surrounded by guards and fellow monarchs whose coming had been foretold as the hope of all Narnia. But then again, losing your family, making mistakes that endangered everything you held dear—that was very ordinary. _These are mistakes kings should not make._ And he knew he had made many mistakes. He had hidden the truth from his brother, and, whatever his motivations had been, he knew he really ought to have known better. Even in saying goodbye to Susan he had not been entirely forthcoming—there were things he had not told her that he rather regretted now. Still, it wouldn't matter if he found Edmund alive and preferably well.

" _One will fall, even as another rises,"_ Menwy had said, and her words circled endlessly in his mind. He tried to view the statement in a positive light—surely someone rising could be interpreted as a good thing, unless it was Obridesh who was rising to even greater power and himself who would fall. _Or Edmund._ Perhaps Menwy meant falling in the sense of falling from power and rising in the sense of someone being found. If that were the case, then perhaps the Tisroc and his corrupt government would fall when he found Edmund. _Or she could mean fall in the sense of someone dying—someone like Ed._

He was so lost in his thoughts, confused and circular as they were, that he nearly walked straight into the firmly closed door of the inn and was halted only by Brickle stopping abruptly and mumbling something _almost_ inaudible. Peter blinked and peered down at his companion through the haze of rain.

"What was that, Brickle?" The Dwarf started violently, obviously having meant his muttered comment to be _entirely_ inaudible, and his somehow still grubby hands scrabbled for the drenched strands of his beard that had escaped from the hood of his cloak.

"N-nothing, your majesty." He sounded so startled that Peter decided not to press the matter, despite his own amusement. It had certainly sounded to him as though Brickle had called him a clumsy fool, which Peter found particularly amusing given the fellow's nervous temperament. Still, he supposed it was rather impossible to spend any length of time in Edmund's presence and not acquire traces of his sarcastic, and sometimes insulting, sense of humour. If Brickle was laughing at him Peter was fairly certain it was the most openly spirited behaviour he had ever seen from Brickle and he was glad of it.

The interior of the inn, once Peter had pushed the door open, was dark, dingy, and deserted save for a surly looking Calormen innkeeper behind the tall counter at one end of the room. The man looked up expectantly from running a filthy rag around the handle of an equally filthy tankard when the door opened, and his face fell when he saw that it was Peter. He scowled and went back to his task without further acknowledging his "barbarian" guests—despite the fact that he was making a tidy profit simply by keeping his mouth shut regarding Peter's presence in his inn.

He did not, of course, know who it was who was paying him—Peter was no fool and had not thought it particularly wise to inform the man that he was hosting one of Narnia's kings—and it did not seem to matter over much to him as long as gold continued to find its way into his pockets. Despite this he seemed to have no great love of Northerners and Peter regarded him with a vaguely disgusted air in return—it was not a friendly arrangement, but it had been a functional one so far. As long as the innkeeper continued to hold his tongue, and as long as there was a fire burning in the hearth, Peter was prepared to excuse a far higher level of rudeness than he ordinarily would have.

There was, in fact, a fire burning in the hearth and he and Brickle crowded around it gratefully, shedding their sodden cloaks and rubbing their cold hands together for warmth. Brickle rang the water out of his sodden beard with a mumbled curse and Peter found himself stifling a chuckle at his foul humour.

The innkeeper glared balefully at them from behind his counter, obviously annoyed that they were displaying their Northern heritage so openly. Peter's hair, now that he had removed his cloak and hood, could not be mistaken for any colour other than golden and Brickle, who might have been mistaken for a child while he wore his cloak, was no unmistakably a Narnian Dwarf. Peter didn't see why it should matter so much to the fellow—it wasn't as though any other guests were present to remark about their identities.

Peter sank into a somewhat musty chair that he had dragged nearer the hearth and sighed, exhaustion pulling at his limbs and weighing heavy upon his eyelids. Grief began to settle back over him, it had been held at bay during the day by the flurry of his activity, but it returned now in the absence of other occupation. He slumped down in the chair, burying his aching head between his hands.

 _I'm trying, Ed. I swear I'm trying, but I can't find you. Please, I need a sign, give me a sign._ He wasn't sure if his last unspoken plea was directed at Edmund, or Aslan, or both, but it hardly mattered. He was vaguely aware of Brickle hovering solicitously near his shoulder, mumbling something that was likely meant to be consoling. Peter found himself wishing, somewhat uncharitably, that he would simply be silent. There was really nothing that Brickle could say that Peter did not already know, or that would be even remotely helpful, but Peter had recently resolved to keep better control of his temper and refrained from snapping at the well-meaning chap.

Brickle babbled on about going back to the house owned by Lemesh to make further inquiries in the morning (even though Lemesh had promised to send world already if he heard any news), and going down to search near the docks for the sixth time (as if six were some magic number that would lead to discoveries not made the previous five times).

Peter nodded blankly as he talked, acknowledging the sentiment more than the words themselves, and barely took any notice of the door when it opened, admitting a gust of wind and a good deal of rain as well. He heard the innkeeper make a vaguely quarrelsome remark before the door slammed shut but didn't lift his head from his hands. It was likely a Calormene traveler, which meant more bribes would need to be exchanged before the night was over to buy the newcomers silence, but Peter couldn't bring himself to care just then.

Brickle shook his arm, likely spooked by the arrival of another Calormen, and Peter bit back a cutting remark. "Your majesty!" Brickle shook his arm again with increasing urgency and Peter lifted his head blearily, fully expecting that he was going to come face to face with a troupe of armed Calormene soldiers intent on killing them.

"What is it Brickle?" he asked, rather irritably when he did not see the expected murderous soldiers.

"Look!" Brickle gave his arm one last, persistent shake and point towards the door. A truly bedraggled figure stood just inside the closed door, half leaning against the frame. He wore no hat or cloak, and his feet were bare. He was soaked and water dripped from his clothes, which were the loose linen shirt and trousers that a Calormene nobleman might wear to bed, and turned the dust on the innkeeper's worn carpet to mud. He might have been dressed like a sleepwalking Calormen, but it was clear to Peter in an instant that this fellow was no Southerner. His hair was dark, straggling across his face in sodden tangles, but his skin was far too pale for a native of sun scorched Calormen.

Peter stared at him, his chest suddenly constricted to the point that breathing had become difficult. It couldn't be, after so much fruitless searching it was utterly impossible to believe what he was seeing—he must have fallen asleep before the fire and dropped into a bizarre dream. The bedraggled figure lifted a shaking hand, brushing the dripping hair back from his eyes and scanned the room, gaze fixing on Peter, and Peter knew he couldn't be dreaming.

The newcomer looked dazed, his eyes were unfocused, his expression confused, and he was leaning against the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping him on his feet, but he was unquestionably alive.

"Ed!" Peter was halfway across the room before he even realised he was on his feet, then he paused, suddenly unsure. Edmund had made no move, either to approach him or to call out to him. "Edmund?"

His hair had fallen back over his eyes and he brushed it away again, almost impatiently, as he blinked somewhat dizzily at his brother.

"Who—" he began, then seemed to change his mind about what he meant to say and shook his head. He blinked again, his eyes seeming to focus for a moment as he peered across the dimly lit room to where Peter stood, halfway between him and the hearth. "Pete?" His expression cleared, the confusion melting away, before his eyes lost focus, his gaze slipping from Peter's face as he slumped suddenly sideways.

"Ed!" Peter barely caught him before he hit his head on the stone threshold and half dragged him further into the room, ignoring the innkeeper's mutterings about "those cursed by the gods".

"Brickle!" he snapped in the Dwarf's direction, registering distantly that Brickle was watching the proceedings in open-mouthed shock. "Fetch Menwy—I know you have a way in and out of the city other than the main gates. Get her now, and be quick about it, try not to be seen but if you are it hardly matters now." _Now that we've found him—or he's found us—I don't care who knows I'm here._

Peter saw Brickle nod out of the corner of his eye and then the door was thrown up and clammed shut again with a considerable amount of force. The innkeeper muttered something mutinous and Peter turned a glare that was usually reserved for deserters or the most trying of Susan's suitors in his direction.

"Make yourself useful. Fetch me a blanket." The Calormen gaped at him, his left hand going up to his forehead in the Calormene gesture for protection. "Go!" Peter half shouted, ignoring the fellow's scowl as he turned with a huff of annoyance and disappeared into a back room. He absentmindedly hoped that the Calormen had disappeared to follow his order and fetch a blanket, and not the Guard.

Left alone, Peter directed his attention back to Edmund—who had not moved—and whose nose had started bleeding. "What have you done to yourself this time, you fool?" he asked, expecting and receiving no answer. At least Edmund didn't appear to be bleeding, except from his nose, and he appeared healthy enough—save that he was soaked to the skin and turning rather blue as a result of the cold.

Peter stared at him, completely at a loss for what to do next. It was something of a shock for him—not five minutes ago he had been dangerously close to despairing that he would ever find Edmund and now here he was, lying insensible on the muddy carpet. Peter was used enough to his brother being unconscious, but this time he was soaked with water, not blood, he didn't seem to be hurt, and Peter found he had no idea what to do. Menwy would know. He wondered vaguely how long it had been since Brickle had run out into the night and how soon he might expect him to return with the Centauress. It couldn't have been very long at all and he really ought to do something while he waited for them, but before he could quite decide what he ought to do Edmund stirred uneasily.

He opened slightly unfocused eyes and blinked up at Peter for a moment before his expression cleared and he sat up so quickly that his forehead nearly collided with Peter's. His expression had changed just as quickly, going from surprise and confusion to a very fierce scowl. "Really Peter, this simply won't do! You cannot follow me everywhere I go!"

Peter stared at him, opened his mouth, and promptly closed it again, still staring and feeling rather slow. Edmund continued scowling, arms crossed over his chest in a universal display of displeasure, and managed to look fierce despite the fact that his teeth were chattering.

"I thought we agreed you weren't coming with me."

"I didn't," Peter said, finding his voice at last though he till felt rather dazed by the sudden turn of events. "You went and got yourself into trouble, and then we thought you were dead—I'm fairly certain Susan is planning your funeral—and then Aslan told me you weren't dead, and well, here I am."

The statement sounded rather jumbled, even to Peter himself, and he wasn't particularly surprised when Edmund's confused expression returned. His eyes narrowed, scanning Peter's face, no doubt taking in his disheveled appearance and the dark circles under his eyes that spoke of worry and sleepless nights. He scowled again, obviously not liking the inevitable conclusion that he reached. "You thought I was dead? Why the devil would you think that? I've only been gone a few days!" He sounded exasperated, but Peter knew him well enough to hear the hint of fondness that hid behind the annoyance.

"You've been gone a bit longer than that." Peter paused to rummage through his pockets and, after a good bit of fumbling, produced the signet ring and passed it to his brother. Edmund took the ring and stared at it blankly, still not comprehending. Peter was beginning to feel a different worry creep into the edges of his mind. _A few days?_ "This arrived on the eleventh with a very convincing note telling me you were dead."

Edmund raised his eyes from the ring to stare at Peter instead with the same wide-eyed incomprehension. "Oh." He looked around the inn, seeming to take note of his surroundings for the first time. "Why am I on the floor?"

Peter's laugh sounded faintly hysterical, even to his own ears and he was not surprised when Edmund raised his eyebrows at him. "I-I had not yet decided…whether I should leave you there…or not," Peter managed to say at last, breathless and still chuckling slightly maniacally—though there was nothing particularly funny about the situation.

Edmund regarded him calmly. "What day is it?"

The question, and the fact that his brother's teeth were chattering as he asked it, sobered Peter and he looked around quickly, wondering if the innkeeper actually _had_ gone to summon the Guard. "It's the twentieth," he said quietly, deciding to address one problem at a time. _You were missing for nine days,_ he added silently.

Before Edmund could say anything in response the innkeeper returned and sullenly handed Peter a rather motheaten blanket which he wrapped hastily around Edmund's shoulders. "You'd be warmer by the fire," he informed his dazed looking brother, offering him a hand as he got to his feet.

Edmund was staring at him, his eyes wide and startled. "The twentieth?" he asked in a slightly shaky voice and Peter nodded, hand still outstretched to him. Edmund shook his head, though in disbelief or confusion, Peter could not tell, and scrambled unsteadily to his feet. He allowed Peter to guide him across the room, dropped gratefully into the chair by the fire, and stared down at the worn carpet between his bare, bruised feet.

"The twentieth," he repeated, almost mechanically. "The tenth," he said a moment later, raising a shaking hand to brush the hair back from his eyes again. "The last thing I remember is searching Tarkaan Obridesh's rooms at a Calormene inn on the tenth." He raised his eyes, and Peter saw confusion and more than a little fear in his eyes. "I don't remember anything after leaving the inn. It's happened again, hasn't it? I've forgotten again."

Peter was saved from answering (he didn't have an answer that seemed appropriately comforting) by the door flying open again as Menwy and Brickle clattered into the inn, the noise of Menwy's hooves nearly drowning out the innkeeper's protests.

"I don't remember," Edmund repeated, hardly seeming to notice the arrival of the others. He pressed his hands against his temples, as if his head pained him, and pressed his eyes shut with a grimace. "Why can't I remember?"

Menwy shot Peter a concerned look as she clattered across the room, ducking her head to avoid striking it on the low ceiling, and knelt awkwardly beside Edmund's chair. Peter found himself backing away slowly, his hands shaking. Edmund was there, he seemed to be alright, but Peter couldn't push aside the dread that filled him. " _One will fall,"_ Menwy had said. _"He is not dead, but neither is he alive,"_ Aslan had told him when he asked about Edmund. But Edmund was here, he was alive, and yet… _and yet I feel as though finding him was not the most difficult task awaiting me._

Menwy was speaking to Edmund in a low voice and he seemed to be nodding, but Peter could not hear what was being said and he could not bring himself to go back across the room to his brother's side. He turned to Brickle instead, clenching his shaking hands into fists and struggling to think of something useful to do next.

"Peridan is not here," he told the Dwarf, keeping his voice low. "And my brother is confused—he remembers nothing of these past days."

Brickle tugged on his soaking beard and mumbled something that sounded vaguely like "not again". Peter ignored the comment and continued, feeling his face twist into a frown. "We need answers, and Peridan may be the only one who can provide them. We must find him."

Brickle nodded, and Peter considered it a great kindness that he did not point out that they had already looked for Peridan and found nothing. "Is his majesty alright?" Brickle asked, his tone betraying a degree of concern as he peered across the room to where Menwy still knelt beside Edmund's chair.

Peter followed his gaze, feeling the dread threatening to crush him under its weight. "I don't know," he admitted, feeling rather ashamed of himself. "I don't know, Brickle."

 **So, I'm curious, who do you feel most bad for now? Leave me a review and let me know what you thought of this chapter! I hope to have the next chapter done and posted by the end of April, but I suppose we'll just have to wait and see if I can manage it :-) Thank you all for reading and reviewing, I am so happy that people are still interested in this story :-)**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	16. The King and The Tarkaan

**Oh dear, I've done it again. I'm SOOOOO behind schedule! So sorry about that. Anyway, if anyone is still interested here is the next chapter :-)**

 **NarniaGirl: This chapter may provide answers to some of your questions, but will likely raise others! The date at the beginning of the chapter is important since it indicates that the events of this chapter are occurring prior to the events of last chapter; that is pretty important! Glad to hear that this is your favourite story! Hopefully you are still interested and reading after my abysmally long delay in posting!**

 **Aslan's Daughter: Here is a bit of another character perspective...though poor Peridan doesn't know what is going on either...I imagine there will be interesting theories after reading this chapter though! Sorry for the delay in updating!**

 **Guest: Glad you are still invested in this story! Hope you enjoy this chapter as well :-)**

 _13th. of Greenroof, 1012_ — _Eighthday_

Peridan was utterly miserable. He had thought himself miserable before, had considered himself to be more than usually unlucky for years, but now he realised that his prior runs of bad luck brooked no comparison to his current one. _How has it come to this? To wandering the streets of this cursed city, alone, hungry, exhausted, and lost?_

He found himself silently cursing the mad determination he had made to find King Edmund and could not think of anyone less suited to the task. Even the most arrogant and indolent of the Archenlandish courtiers would probably have stood a better chance—they at least had nearly inexhaustible supplies of gold they could use to bribe people for information or silence. Peridan had no such resources, but he had searched. He had even returned to the shabby inn where they had encountered the Tarkaan, though he had some difficulty retracing his steps, and found to his dismay that no trace of Obridesh remained—even his shabby clothes and the pile of filthy pewter bowls had been cleared away. The innkeeper, naturally, denied any knowledge of the both the Tarkaan's whereabouts and his existence, and Peridan had too little gold to convince him to talk.

He had also learned that, despite his disguise—the dye and dust that darkened his skin and the turban that hid his fair hair—he did not make a very good Calormen. There was nothing he could do about his light coloured eyes, and however hard he tried he could not seem to match the lilting accents and bizarre colloquialisms that so distinguished the speech of the Southern peoples. He had managed to pilfer weapons and Calormene shoes from a drunken guard who was sleeping in the gutter, but he was still regarded with suspicion and, on several occasions, open hostility.

He leaned wearily against the corner of a building, stepping out of the way of a large donkey cart, and closed his aching eyes. He briefly considered sitting down on the filthy street, dropping his head forward into his hands, and waiting to die of starvation—or perhaps for someone to trample him. _Trampling is likely preferably,_ he thought distractedly, leaning his head back against the clay bricks of the building. _I've heard starvation takes a frustratingly long time. Perhaps I'll simply sit down and cry._

He knew he was being pathetically morbid, childish even—sitting down to cry was a slightly less extreme version of sitting down to die but no less appealing and infinitely more childish—but the sun was scorching, beating down on him and only adding to his headache. The Calormene mail he wore was heavy, clumsy, and had obviously been made for someone much less broad across the shoulders, presumably King Edmund. The dye that stained his skin did seem to protect his face and neck from burning and blistering, though it did nothing to protect him from the unrelenting heat.

At least the sun was low in the sky, almost dipping below the distant western horizon, and Peridan could hear, very far away in the temples at the centre of the city, the sound of chanting. He wondered what it meant, wishing yet again that he had thought to familiarise himself with at least a few of the customs in this strange, foreign place before he had found himself stranded here. Of course, he had never planned on being stranded anywhere, had never planned on being alone, and certainly had not planned for his life to be such a useless waste.

 _Moping will do you no good,_ he reminded himself, remembering his father's voice—all those years ago—telling him the same thing. That had been the last time he remembered crying. He scrubbed a hand across his face, refusing to cry now, and pushed himself away from the wall. Sitting in the dust like a beggar would do no good and it seemed better, more purposeful, if he continued walking—even if he had no idea what he intended to do or where he planned to go.

He chose a direction at random and trudged down until, rounding a corner, he found himself very suddenly face to face with King Edmund. The King, however, seemed not to see Peridan and before he could speak King Edmund's eyes had slid past his face as if he were invisible and he had continued on his way, walking quickly and giving the impression of some eminent and imperative purpose. Peridan stared after his retreating back, his mouth half open to call out, but some feeling of unidentifiable foreboding stopped the words in his throat. He had not thought his disguise effective enough to fool King Edmund, but the King had not even spared him a second glance as he passed.

King Edmund who, last Peridan had seen him, was a prisoner of Tarkaan Obridesh. King Edmund, who was walking freely, without guards, through the streets of Tashbaan as if he did not have a care in the world. Peridan wavered for a moment, undecided and wanting desperately to call out, to end his fruitless wandering and confusion, but the foreboding was too strong. He closed his mouth, squared his shoulders, and hurried through the crowd after the King's retreating back.

He stayed well back, watching warily, half expecting that he would be caught—King Edmund struck him as the sort of man who would know when he was being followed, even in a crowd. It seemed that he needn't have worried however—the king did not turn once, did not seem concerned or watchful. He walked with the ease of a man who knew these streets, understood the people, and needed to have no fear of anything.

Peridan was not sure what it was that filled him with foreboding. King Edmund was an accomplished spy, why shouldn't he be comfortable in Tashbaan? Perhaps he even knew he was being followed, knew it was Peridan, and was therefore unconcerned.

Peridan hurriedly turned another corner, still keeping his distance, and found himself in an open courtyard that seemed to be a type of market, or meeting place. There were a few people hurrying back and forth—slaves carrying parcels and enormous pitchers of water, merchants selling their wares at stalls with brightly coloured canopies, and even a groom brushing the coat of an enormous black horse. There were palm trees scattered through the courtyard, and a fountain was bubbling merrily in the centre of it. Standing beside the fountain, leaning nonchalantly against a nearby pillar and scanning the bustling people intently was King Edmund.

Peridan ducked behind a nearby palm tree, still not certain what imperative sense of danger made him avoid being seen but choosing to listen. The King was very finely dressed, in the Calormene fashion though he was bareheaded rather than wearing the traditional turban of the South, and he seemed to be as at ease here as he had been in the street. He also seemed to be waiting for someone, his eyes still scanning the people intently as if he was looking for a familiar face in the conclusion.

Peridan did not have to wait long to see who he was meeting. A tall figure entered the courtyard from the other side, sweeping across the flagstones with quick, eager steps. King Edmund straightened, stepping away from the pillar, and clasped the newcomer's hand enthusiastically. With a shock, Peridan recognised Obridesh Tarkaan, though now he was not dressed in shabby clothes and stumbling drunkenly. He moved with confidence, authority, and, Peridan thought, no small amount of arrogance. His clothes were fine, his beard was combed and streaked with crimson dye, and Peridan saw a flash of gold at his wrists and on the hilt of his curving scimitar.

King Edmund was still clasping his hand and Peridan thought he was smiling—the Tarkaan's other hand was on his shoulder. Peridan crept closer, heart hammering in terror, and strained his ears to hear their low voices.

"And to you," King Edmund was saying in the musical, lilting accent of a native, high-borne Calormen. "Though I must confess to some confusion as to the place of our meeting. The message you left for me held no explanation of your bizarre behaviour."

The Tarkaan stepped away, dropping his hand from King Edmund's shoulder, and sat on the edge of the fountain with an audible sigh. "You know now of my bargain with my Lord Tash, though I have not told you the precise details."

The King nodded, moving to sit next to Obridesh. He seemed utterly at ease in the presence of a man he had previously appeared to despise, displaying none of the tension Peridan had observed in his manner before. This was the ease of long acquaintance and Peridan felt a terrible chill, despite the warmth rising from the sun baked flagstones beneath his feet.

 _What if it was all a trick?_ What if the meeting with the Tarkaan in the inn had not been chance, but some carefully constructed detail that had led to the King's seemingly opportunistic search of Obridesh's rooms and his subsequent capture. He was quite obviously not a prisoner, and Peridan shuddered as a terrible suspicion coalesced in his mind. _What if King Edmund is in league with the Calormenes and whatever plots they have hatched?_

He had heard rumours, whispers years ago when the Kings and Queens had first retaken Narnia, that the younger of the kings was a traitor. But that had been gossip, quickly dismissed and discredited even more by the complete trust the other three seemed to have in their brother. _But what if they were wrong? What if we have all been deceived?_

It hardly bore thinking of, but Peridan could not shake the doubt now that it had become firmly seated in his mind. He remembered King Edmund's surprise at seeing Obridesh in the inn, the momentary and uncharacteristic flicker of lost control as he had cursed aloud. He remembered how Obridesh had failed to harm the King, save for a cut across his hand, even though King Edmund had been initially defenceless, and he remembered how King Edmund had thrown his knife in the street, leaving himself weaponless and more easily captured. The disparate details merged together, forming a clear image of horror. King Edmund the Just, knight of Narnia and self-proclaimed follower of Aslan had betrayed everything he claimed to hold dear.

Peridan clenched his fists, wanting desperately to leap forward, seize King Edmund and demand he return to Narnia to face the justice of his brother and the court, but he knew it would be useless. The Tarkaan was armed, and though Peridan could see no weapons at King Edmund's belt he highly doubted the King would be defenceless. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to remain where he was, listening.

"You truly believe your agreement will stand, oh brother of my heart?" King Edmund was asking, his voice tinged with incredulity.

"It must," the Tarkaan said sharply. "I have not yet fully upheld my side of the bargain and if Lord Tash fails in his I will do no more for him, though he damns me. If he fails in his promise I will tear down his temples and hurl them into the sea with my own hands." He sounded angry, tension visible in the line of his shoulders and the grim set of his jaw.

King Edmund put a hand on his shoulder with the same, unsettling air of familiarity that Peridan had previously noted. "Peace. Remember your mother and what became of her when she stood against the dark god. Remember what happens to those who dare to defy Tash—you know as well as I that no mortal may deny him his desires and live." He sounded vaguely scornful as if, even while acknowledging the power of the Calormene god, he was not particularly impressed by it.

The Tarkaan laughed lightly, almost mocking in his tone as he spoke. "At least my god is visible to me, unlike your precious Lion. What has Aslan ever done to show you His power? When has He appeared to you, and how has He ever helped you? Tash may exact a terrible price for his favour and blessings, but he at least appears when summoned."

"Do not speak of that which you do not understand," King Edmund cut in, his voice steely. "Aslan has seen me through many dangers and demanded nothing in return save for my belief." He drew his hand back from where it had rested on the Tarkaan's shoulder and scowled at him.

Obridesh sighed, seeming half exasperated and half regretful, and when he spoke again his voice was low enough that Peridan risked slipping forward a few more paces to the next palm tree so he could hear the words.

"Forgive me," the Tarkaan said, running a hand across his face in a weary gesture. "I have grown cynical since last we spoke of such things. I meant no offence to you, or to your god."

The King nodded gravely, appearing appeased. "You have suffered much, and much has been demanded of you. Much which I believe you have yet to tell me." The statement seemed rather pointed to Peridan—a thinly veiled demand for information which seemed to hang heavily in the air between the King and Tarkaan.

Obridesh sighed again, rising slowly with an air of great reluctance. "Walk with me and I will tell you what truth I may, but do not press me for things I cannot yet reveal, I beg you."

King Edmund regarded him for a moment and Peridan found himself hoping, desperately and futilely, that _this_ was the trick, that the King would suddenly draw a blade and order the Tarkaan to reveal the truth of all his schemes and by doing so would shatter the strange illusion of friendship between them. But the moment passed and King Edmund only nodded, following the Tarkaan.

Peridan stood frozen, staring after them and knowing he should follow but unable to muster the courage. His hands were shaking as he gripped the unfamiliar hilt of the scimitar at his side. Of all the things he had expected, dreaded, and feared would come of this visit to Tashbaan he had never imagined this.

" _Brother of my heart,"_ King Edmund had said to the Tarkaan. What could have forged such a bond between them, worse what secrets might have King Edmund shared with someone he spoke to with such fondness? What terrible danger might an unsuspecting Narnia now lie in as the result of a trusted and much-loved King's treachery?

 _I have to follow._ Shaking hands or no it was his duty, his obligation to protect the country he so desperately wished to belong to. He hurried across the courtyard, after the two figures which had disappeared through the far archway, and burst out, back onto the street, scanning the masses of people for the two tall figures. He silently cursed the cowardice that had made him hesitate and then cursed aloud as a great, dark shadow dropped from the sky and landed heavily upon his shoulder.

"Well met, Peridan of Archenland," a sonorous voice croaked next to his ear as Sallowpad settled his wings into place. "Have you not heard the saying "Those who spy upon their King may find themselves relieved of their heads"?"

Peridan, once he had recovered from his initial shock at the Raven's sudden reappearance, did his best to melt back into the shadow of a tall building and turned his head to glare at the Bird. "Have you not heard that Kings who betray their countries deserve no deference or respect?" Sallowpad said nothing and Peridan narrowed his eyes in realisation. "You saw and heard, didn't you? You know what he has done."

"I know no such thing." Sallowpad regarded him coldly with his beady eyes, talons tightening on Peridan's shoulder, painful despite the Calormene mail he wore. "I did see," the Raven amended at last, sounding regretful. "But you must not imagine that you understand. The King is loyal to Narnia regardless of any evidence to the contrary."

The Raven was regarding him with such an icy, stubborn gaze that Peridan thought it better not to argue the point, though his own certainty had not been shaken by Sallowpad's words. He was no fool, he knew what he had seen, and it was not loyalty to Narnia. "What you have me do?" he asked wearily. "I cannot do nothing." _However much I wish that I could._ He doubted that the High King would welcome him anymore warmly with news of his brother's betrayal than he would have with news of his capture.

"You could do nothing," Sallowpad offered helpfully, tilting his head to one side curiously. "But even you are not quite so useless. Perhaps it would help if I told you where his majesty came from to meet the with Tarkaan?"

"You were following him?" Peridan asked incredulously. Sallowpad had made it sound as if he trusted the king completely, and yet he had been shadowing his steps. _Perhaps he isn't as certain as he seems._ "I thought those who spy on kings are in danger of finding themselves headless." As soon as he had spoken Peridan found that he was rather surprised by the boldness of his own words, but Sallowpad was no courtier and Peridan supposed he did not owe the Raven any particular deference.

Sallowpad ruffled his feathers, wings flaring slightly as if for balance. "I am a Raven," he said solemnly, as if that explained everything. It did not, but Peridan correctly assumed it was the only response he was going to receive.

"Will you show me then? Where King Edmund came from?"

In answer, Sallowpad flared his inky wings and launched himself up, into the darkening sky. Peridan glanced around swiftly, fervently hoping no one had seen him talking to a bird, and much to his relief it seemed that no one had. Casting a final, angry look at the street down which King Edmund and the Tarkaan had disappeared he turned and followed the Raven.

Sallowpad led him swiftly through the maze of streets, occasionally circling back or alighting on balcony railings when Peridan began to fall behind. The streets seemed to all be leading in a vaguely uphill direction, the polished stones sloping upward towards the city centre where palaces and temples loomed forbiddingly against the sky. Peridan supposed that the two largest, and highest in elevation, must be the Tisroc's palace and the great temple of Tash and hurried on after Sallowpad with a shudder. He could not imagine living his life in the shadow of a temple where human blood covered the central altar as often as the blood of other creatures.

Peridan did not put much stock in superstition of any kind and tended to dismiss the various gods of the Calormene pantheon, and the Narnians' Aslan too for that matter, as nothing more than myths, but those of Calormene disturbed him nonetheless. The Narnians at least did not sacrifice children to their god.

At least the air in this part of the city was a good deal clearer and less oppressive than it had been in the lower town and held the faint scents of orange blossoms and jasmine which drifted from the rich nobles' palace gardens. The clay and mud buildings too had given way to marble columns and latticed balconies and he heard laughter drifting down from a few well-lit windows and once caught a glimpse of a splendidly dressed Tarkaan leaning against a balcony railing with a rather scantily clad young woman next to him. Peridan felt his face flush and he hurried on. Calormene fashions had always struck him as far too extreme.

As he turned the next corner he found himself in front of a splendid palace, set back from the road slightly and ringed with a high fence of wrought iron which was decorated with gold vines and a set with a heavy gate that opened into a small courtyard leading up to a shining marble portico. The windows of the palace were mostly dark, though he could see a glimmer of light from a few of the lower rooms that warned the place was not entirely deserted.

Sallowpad perched on the heavy gate and tilted his head towards the front doors. "The palace of Tarkaan Areesh," he croaked, sounding disdainful rather than concerned. "Must trusted advisor of the Tisroc, may the vultures devour his eyes."

"I—" Peridan stared at the grandeur before him. "I thought he was out of favour."

Sallowpad ruffled his wings in a motion vaguely reminiscent of a shrug. "It would seem that he is out of favour no longer. "He returned home two days ago, I followed after seeing what became of King Edmund in the street. No one else arrived or left until the Tarkaan this morning and King Edmund shortly after midday."

Peridan stared at him. "You saw what happened in the street and you did not aid him, or try to find me?"

Sallowpad fairly cackled with laughter. "The king's affairs are his own. If he wishes to find himself captured who am I to interfere? I am a watcher, a shadow, not a guard. And as for you," he turned his head until he regarded Peridan only with one, half closed eye. "You are no concern of mine."

With that he flared his wings and launched himself skyward once more, though Peridan thought he could still see the vague outline of the Bird, circling high above, no doubt still watching intently. Quite obviously he was going to be of no further help.

 _I can't stay in sight on the street._ Peridan glared up at the shadow circling and silently cursed the whole unpleasant business that had brought him here. The guards in this part of the city he had noted were much more finely dressed than he was himself, and he knew he would soon draw attention if he remained lurking in front of the Tarkaan's gate for no apparent reason. He supposed that Sallowpad, had he been inclined to be helpful, could have advised him of some hiding place but being helpful did not seem to be an attribute of Ravens.

Only then did it occur to him that he meant to stay here, waiting and listening, until the king returned. What he planned to do then he was not sure, but he had some vague, half-formed idea of leaping from some hiding place and confronting the fellow.

 _And what then? Drag him back to Cair Paravel?_ He knew full well he had as little chance of accomplishing that as he had of meeting the Calormene gods face to face. King Edmund was well known for his nearly uncanny ability to escape from far more carefully planned traps and Peridan had no doubt that he was more likely to end up with his throat slit than to succeed in making the king go somewhere he did not want to.

Still, dying in an attempt to protect Narnia seemed far more honourable than spending his life begging on the streets of Tashbaan. _And perhaps if Sallowpad sees his king slit my throat he will be less inclined to trust him and carry some report of his questionable activities back to the High King._

He looked around quickly, searching for some obscured hiding place and eventually settled on a cluster of orange trees that grew close to one side of the gate. He slipped behind them, trying to blend into the shadows and pinching the bridge of his nose frantically to stifle a series of violent sneezes as pollen showered down around him. He would have far preferred the trees to be covered in fruit rather than blossoms since he could not seem to remember the last time he had eaten, but wishing did little good.

He leaned back against the bars of the fence and peered up at the sky, or what little he could see of it through the trees. The stars were out, the only sign that Sallowpad was still watching was the occasional flash of shadow between him and the far-off lights, and Peridan shook his head in frustration. The Raven could just as easily be complicit in whatever plot he had stumbled across and perhaps he was waiting to alert King Edmund of the trap.

Peridan sighed and shifted, feeling his muscles start to cramp as the night wore on. It was growing cold as well, Tashbaan was close enough to the desert to be subject to the vast fluctuations in temperature between day and night, and he found himself wishing he had a cloak. The moon was up now, shedding a faint silver light over the street and forcing Peridan to flatten himself further back into the shadow of the trees, hoping his own shadow would be hidden by the others.

Still, no one came. It was possible, he supposed, that Sallowpad had led him wrong, or that King Edmund had completed his business and would not be returning, or, worse still, that he had come in by some other gate. He was about to give up and find some other corner to skulk off to for the night when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching swiftly from the same direction he had come earlier. There was only one set, as far as he could tell, and the late-night wanderer seemed to be in something of a hurry.

He peered cautiously from between the branches, stifling another sneeze, and saw King Edmund hurrying up the street, casting furtively glances over his shoulder as if he expected to be followed. Peridan clenched his shaking right hand around the hilt of his stolen scimitar with enough force to make his knuckles ache and for the embossed metal grip to dig into his palm.

 _A few more steps._ The king paused at the gate, fumbling with something, and Peridan burst from the shadows of the trees, sneezing as he drew his scimitar. He knew he couldn't appear particularly intimidating as he sneezed again and nearly dropped the weapon, but the king started nearly comically and dropped the thing he had been fumbling with, which seemed to be a key. It clattered against the stones of the street and skittered away into the shadows.

"What's this?" the king asked, still speaking in the musical accent of the Calormene, and appearing far more fearful than seemed natural. "My brother will not look kindly upon your actions, nor will The Guard deal lightly with one of their own turning common thief."

"Your brother?" Peridan's hands were shaking, but he hoped that King Edmund couldn't tell in the darkness.

The king put one hand on the gate and took a step back, eyes narrowing as he tried to make out the details of Peridan's face in the shadows. That struck Peridan as rather strange, surely King Edmund must have seen through his disguise by now.

He gritted his teeth and raised the scimitar, pressing the sharp edge of the blade against the king's throat. It was treason to draw steel on one of the four in anything other than friendly sparing, and Peridan was painfully aware of that fact, but he did not know what else he could reasonably have done.

"Your brother?" he repeated, rather proud of how steady his voice was. "Your brother will kill you himself if you have turned traitor." He doubted that this was true—he did not know the High King well, but he could not imagine him raising a hand against any of his family, no matter their crimes, but perhaps the threat would carry some weight regardless.

It seemed to, and King Edmund took another cautious step back. "Traitor?" his voice was almost curious, and he appeared surprised. Peridan realised he must have underestimated the man's skill as an actor. There was no hint, in either his face or voice, that he had any idea what Peridan was referring to. "By your speech, soldier, you are no Calormene, why should you care if I have turned traitor?"

Peridan's hand shook and he heard King Edmund draw in a hissing breath as the scimitar scratched against the skin of his throat but that was less concerning than his words. _Calormene? Why is he speaking as if I am accusing him of being a traitor to Calormen and not Narnia?_

"Who are you?" the king demanded, obviously growing weary of the confrontation.

 _Think! I have to think._ It made no sense, the man before him was unmistakably King Edmund but there was something strange and unfamiliar in his expression and voice. He seemed uncertain, frightened even, and had made no move to attack. There was no trace now of the sardonic defiance and mocking demeanor he had displayed when facing Obridesh in the inn and later in the streets of the lower town. It was King Edmund, but it was as if his personality had been stripped away with the traits that had so characterised him utterly absent.

He still showed no sign of recognising Peridan, though Peridan knew that he should have, even through the disguise and in the dim light. King Edmund was not a man who could be so easily fooled, trapped, and held at sword point. Peridan felt the blade in his hand waver and drop in confusion—caution and danger forgotten. There was something wrong here, some strange power beyond his comprehension at work.

"I—" before he could do more than stammer and take half a step back he saw King Edmund's eyes widen in surprise and felt a terrible blow to the back of his head. His vision flashed red for a moment, and then the paving stones of the street were rising to meet him, and someone was laughing, though the sound seemed strangely distant.

 **Anyone know what's going on yet? I would love to hear (read?) your theories! Leave me a review if you can and let me know if anyone is still reading :-). I will do my best to update, and will hopefully succeed this time. Thanks for all your kind words!**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	17. A Narnian Lament

**I'm not dismally late in updating! WHOOHOO! Anyway, have a Susan chapter :-)**

 **Aslan's Daughter: Peridan really isn't a reliable narrator, but as to how often Ed has forgotten things...not very often, but it usually isn't good when he does. And yes, there is canon :-) Anyhow, I finally updated in a reasonable amount of time! Thank you for your review; I am so glad that you are still invested in this story :-)**

 _14_ _th_ _. of Greenroof, 1012—Firstday_

Susan stared at the stack of papers on the desk before her, feeling that she would have liked nothing better than to throw the whole mess into the fire. She was in Peter's study, sitting behind his desk, and it was his correspondence that was currently causing her so much distress. He seemed to have done nothing to answer any of the letters since news had come about Edmund and Lucy—not that she could particularly blame him—but now that he too had ridden out that morning Susan found that the thankless task of sorting through the stacks of parchment fell to her.

Most of the papers required nothing more complicated than a royal signature—receipts acknowledging that shipments of foreign goods had been received, dispatches on troop movements from the Northern border, and requests by builders, miners, and smiths for additional funds were all easily dealt with, though Susan was rather alarmed by a few of the military dispatches concerning lost skirmishes with the Ettins. Other documents, official letters, proposed decrees, and diplomatic reports that should have been directed to Edmund, rather than Peter, proved infinitely more troublesome. The decrees were well within her authority, and capabilities, to reject or approve, but the official letters (mostly nobles offering their daughters' hands in marriage), and the diplomatic reports she had absolutely no idea how to respond to and was slowly organising them into a separate pile.

It was slow, monotonous work and was quickly giving Susan a headache, but she found it immensely useful in keeping her mind off more troubling matters. Peter had ridden out before dawn, and she had watched him go from her balcony but had not been able to summon the self-control required to see him off—she had known she would not be able to keep from crying if she had allowed herself to say goodbye.

She knew what he had told her might very well be true, Lucy might be alive, he might be able to save Edmund from whatever trouble he had gotten himself into this time, but it was better to proceed as if it were not true—as if Peter had ridden out seeking revenge, which, Susan suspected pessimistically, was likely to be all that was left for him in Tashbaan. It was better to bury herself in mindless tasks and do her best to ignore the desperate battle between grief and hope that raged within her.

By late afternoon the pile of correspondence she could not answer was nearly level with the top of her head where she sat behind the desk and Susan frowned at it. Jala, who was standing next to her, shifting through the next stack of letters sighed and regarded the mess with a vaguely superior air which was likely directed at Peter's ineptitude at keeping up with his correspondence. Jala was a trusted and very helpful servant but Susan suspected she had little patience with Peter after the numerous times she had been required to intervene on his behalf during feasts.

The Dryad was just handing Susan another shipping report to sign when the door burst open and Tarkaan Areesh's sister stormed into the room, pursued by a flustered looking Dwarf. Fury was plain in every delicate line of the Tarkheena's face as she flounced over to the nearest chair and sank into it with a rustle of brightly coloured silk. Her gown, which was reasonably opaque at least, was constructed of brilliant and hideously clashing colors, deep purple and flaming orange, accented with filmy overlays of chartreuse, and Susan found herself staring at the girl with mild confusion. The Tarkheena resembled nothing so much as a rather hideously coloured and utterly furious parrot.

Jala's delicate eyebrows seemed in danger of disappearing into her pale hair and Susan motioned for her to leave before she could comment on the utter impropriety of the Tarkheena's arrival. The Dwarf guard hovered in the doorway for a moment, frowning darkly, until Susan waved him away as well and rose to close the door after him. She took a moment to compose her face into a pleasant expression of interest before turning back to her unexpected guest.

"Tarkheena Mazareen?" Susan hadn't precisely meant it to be a question, but the Tarkheena had never spoken to her before—had not spoken to anyone other than Peter and his guards as far as Susan knew—and Susan was still not entirely certain of her name.

The Tarkheena huffed contemptuously but did not correct her, which she took as confirmation that she had at least gotten the girl's name right. Instead of responding politely, the Tarkheena crossed her arms furiously over her chest and glared up at Susan. "I have been most grievously offended!" Mazareen announced in a shrill voice, her chin trembling as if she was about to cry—though there was no hint of tears in her voice.

Susan raised her eyebrows in what she hoped passed for surprised outrage on the Tarkheena's behalf. "I am greatly distressed to hear such a thing Tarkheena." _Truly,_ she added silently, though the distress was not on the Tarkheena's account. With an effort she restrained herself from going back to the desk and the correspondence—whatever the Tarkheena had to say it was likely of little importance and the stack of papers was still rather daunting. "Who has offered you offence?" she asked instead, stifling a sigh.

 _My family gone, all of Narnia in danger, and yet here I am, listening to the doubtless petty complaints a vain fool._ It was enough to make her want to sob in frustration.

"Your royal brother!" The Tarkheena snapped, her tone implying that Susan was being rather dense. Perched primly on the edge of her chair, speaking in her shrill, plaintive voice, Susan was once more struck by her resemblance to a parrot. "He has gone," Mazareen continued, voice quavering in anger, or perhaps a counterfeit display of grief over his departure. "And without a word to me!"

Susan struggled to keep her expression neutral and wasn't sure she was doing a very good job of it. "I wasn't aware my brother owed you a word in regards to his plans," she replied evenly, though she wanted nothing more than to shake the ridiculous girl.

Mazareen huffed again, tossing her glossy black curls disdainfully. "Does not a Narnian knight owe his betrothed some explanation? I do not know how things are done here in Narnia, but in Calormen women are shown proper respect."

Susan blinked, staring at the Tarkheena in silence for a long moment, too stunned by her claim to formulate a sufficient response at first. At last she cleared her throat and tried to make sense of the ridiculous statement. "Betrothed? I have heard nothing of this." _Likely because it is blatantly false. Does she have no respect?_ If Lucy and Edmund were dead, as the Tarkheena must believe them to be, how could she find it conscionable to make such a claim on their grieving elder brother?

The Tarkheena gave her a very haughty look. "And why should you have heard of it? You are not the keeper of your brother. When I am his queen you shall not even have a throne."

Susan felt her eyebrows rise further at that pronouncement, but before she could formulate a suitable response—one that could only be perceived as polite but would still leave no doubt in the Tarkheena's mind that Narnian politics did not function in that manner—the door flew open again and this time it was Tarkaan Areesh who burst in, disheveled and panting as if he had just run up the stairs from the courtyard. Jala trailed after him, her mouth set in a hard, disapproving line.

"My lord, you must not—" Jala began, but the Tarkaan was already across the room and had grasped his sister firmly by the arm.

"Mazareen! You have the sense of a moon mad ostrich! Cease your prattling immediately before you cause grave offence to our most gracious host."

 _Moon mad ostrich?_ Susan had not been aware of the existence of such an insult and she felt the corners of her mouth twitch as she tried to repress a laugh.

A moment later the Tarkaan turned to her, still clutching his sister by the arm and half dragging the furious Tarkheena from her chair. He was much less composed than she was accustomed to seeing him and displayed none of the arrogance he had the night he had climbed through her window. In fact, he looked rather desperate and utterly humiliated.

"Your majesty, my lady, a thousand apologies for the deeply regrettable actions of my sister." His face flushed, and Susan wondered if he was remembering his own deeply regrettable actions. _Perhaps believing that would be giving him more credit than he deserves,_ she reflected, still feeling a twinge of annoyance at the memory herself.

"She is often unwell and confused," he continued, dragging her the rest of the way from the chair and pulling her roughly to her feet. Mazareen glared at him, face red with fury as she twisted in his grip.

"I am not unwell! Let me go you brute! The curse of Tash be upon you!" Mazareen nearly broke free from his grip as she kicked him sharply in the shin, but Areesh clung to her arm with more tenacity than Susan would previously have credited him with, although his expression did become rather more pained.

"Silence!" The Tarkaan commanded, though his voice sounded almost beseeching. "Sister, be silent before you disgrace yourself further." He backed towards the door, bowing rather clumsily as he half dragged his sister from the room.

As the door swung closed behind them Susan breathed out a sigh and she sank back into the chair behind the desk. Jala stared after the pair, her face contorted into an almost comical expression of disgust. "Are you well, Queen Susan?" she asked as Susan let her head drop forward against the desk.

Susan, torn between crying in frustration at the entire situation—the ridiculous behaviour of the Calormenes, the absence of her siblings, and the still crushing weight of grief that dragged at her—and laughing at the absurdity of the confrontation could only nod silently.

Jala put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Don't despair, Queen Susan, I dare say those two won't linger now."

Susan managed a choked laugh at that and nodded again, lifting her head from the desk and squaring her shoulders, the momentary lapse in control passing quickly enough. "Quite right. Hand me that p—"

She was interrupted by a furious knock on the door and was certain her expression must have been one of complete fury for a moment. "Come in," she called, once she had composed her expression again. _Am I to have the entire castle through here? And this isn't even_ my _study!_

Duke Tirnan strode into the room, polished boots clicking against the stone floor and expression utterly disdainful as he surveyed the disordered room, Susan's ink smeared and untidy appearance, and Jala's disapproving expression. He was dressed for riding, though the lack of mud on his boots and cloak clearly showed that he had yet to leave the castle, and his hand rested (rather concerningly given his fits of temper) on the hilt of his sword.

"I have come to tell you that I no longer wish to marry you," he announced bluntly, and Susan felt an overwhelming sense of relief sweep over her at his words. "Narnia is far too weak a country to be allied with my own people and your charms," he paused, lips twisting onto a sneer, "Your charms are hardly equal to convincing me that there is anything to be gained from such a match."

With that, he turned on his heel and clicked back out of the room. The door slamming the door shut behind him with a very final sounding crash. To Susan's surprise Jala began laughing, very quietly but with such genuine amusement that a few birch leaves began swirling in the air around her and for a moment she seemed much more treelike as the amusement overcame the concentration it required for her to appear nearly human. Susan allowed herself a small smile as well and drew in a very deep breath of relief. It was almost too good to be believed—two of her suitors withdrawing their courtship in the course of a single afternoon, although Areesh had yet to formally announce his intent to leave.

 _At least there will be no further necessity for the servants to deal with Duke Tirnan's explosive and brutish temper. And now_ that _only leaves Gale._ It was just as well, it had been Gale she was planning to speak to in any case.

Susan glanced quickly at the window, seeing by the shadows in the courtyard that it was nearly evening, and stood with a sigh—it was high time that she had the much-dreaded conversation with the young Galman. She looked down at the wrinkled fabric of her gown and the ink stains on her hands rather critically, then shook her head in annoyance. It would be utterly unnecessary to try to improve her appearance before speaking with him—it wasn't as if he wanted to marry her anyway, and a new gown would hardly change that.

"Jala, find Lord Gale for me, would you?"

Jala gave her a rather pained look. "Are you sure, your majesty?" She flushed slightly, obviously uncomfortable questioning Susan's resolve, but hurried on, speaking quickly. "I do not mean to cause any offence, my queen, but are you quite sure you want to speak to him now?"

Susan sighed and crossed to the window, leaning her elbows against the sill and looking out. The courtyard was crowded with grieving Narnians and she tried not to remember other times when it had been equally crowded. Those had been happier occasions for the most part, the yearly celebration of the victory at Beruna, the Christmas feasts to which all of Narnia had been invited, and the numerous occasions when the courtyard had been filled with returning soldiers and her brothers had leapt from their horses, battered and covered in mud, to embrace her.

Her cheeks were damp, and she brushed the tears away impatiently with the back of her hand. "Quite sure," she said firmly, not turning from the window. "Bring him here if you would be so kind."

Jala offered no further protest, and a moment later Susan heard the click of the door falling shut behind her. She dropped back into the chair and stared at the papers, her vision blurring out of focus. _Be strong,_ she told herself silently, wiping away the latest mist of tears with her handkerchief. _For Narnia._

Peter had told her that she must care for herself as well, but Peter did not know what it was to be a woman, trying to lead a country on her own. It had been difficult enough for Susan when her brothers, and even Lucy, had ridden away to war and she had no doubt that it would be far worse now. If Peter did not find Edmund, alive and well, Susan doubted he would survive it, even if Lucy did return to them, and that would leave her as the head of the country indefinitely. Duke Tirnan's words had only served to reinforce her doubts about whether neighbouring countries would respect Narnia under such circumstances, and she no longer had any illusions about their current treaties being honoured. She needed allies desperately if they were to stay free from foreign rule.

 _It could be worse,_ she told herself firmly, straightening the stacks of paper and fidgeting with the quill lying on the desk. _It could be a great deal worse._ But that did not make what she must do very much easier.

The shadows lengthened as she sat there, waiting and trying not to think and the room was nearly dark when she stood and lit the lamp on the mantle and the candle near the desk. She crossed back to the window and looked back at the courtyard to find that there were candles glowing brightly there as well, held in the upraised hands of the gathered Narnians gathered.

The room was terribly silent, and she could hear the faint sounds of singing rising from the assembly. Almost unwillingly she pushed the window open and listened, caught, in spite of her own grief, by the beauty of the music.

The voices of Dryads rose, high and sweet, above the deep bass of the Dwarves and the clear tenors and baritones of Fauns and Satyrs. Someone was playing a harp and a moment later the sound of reed pipes joined the chorus, strangely haunting in the absence of their usual joyful tone.

 _To the sea she went, so fair and bright,_

 _And he to a land of endless night,_

 _Neither to return again._

 _Light the pyre,_

 _Salute the ones who came before,_

 _And pray we meet again on some distant shore._

She was listening so intently, held rapt by every note, that she didn't hear the door open and found herself badly startled when someone spoke, very close to her ear. " _The Ballad of Tarva and Alambil_?"

It was Gale, standing beside her as he too looked down at the chorus below. Susan nodded, pulling the window shut and turning away from it determinedly. _Now is not the time to listen to music._ The song had struck her particularly tonight as she realised that this time the words were not meant as a tribute to long dead heroes of legend, but as a lament for her own lost siblings. The thought made her throat constrict painfully.

"Do you know the story?" she asked quickly, trying to regain her wavering composure as she motioned for Gale to sit.

He looked around quickly, then dropped into the armchair by the cold fireplace and Susan was struck by the memory of Edmund sitting there with Lucy perched on the arm of his chair, laughing as she watched Peter try to make the shadow animals on the wall. She blinked and shook her head. _Don't think about it._

"Not the story, but I know the song. A bard sang it at the last tournament in Galma," he added with a smile. "Your brother the High King was there and seemed transfixed by the rendition."

Susan nodded, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. "I suppose he would have been. King Edmund does not—did not—sing often."

He stared at her, obviously startled. "King Edmund? Surely you don't mean—but he didn't say anything about who he was, and neither did the High King! My father sent him to eat in the kitchens!"

Susan managed a smile at that, she imagined Edmund had been perfectly content to eat in the kitchens, and had most likely had half the household fussing over him and offering him extra food before the night was out.

"I wish I could have met him properly," Gale remarked quietly, staring into the unlit ashes of the hearth. "From what I have heard of him he was a truly great king."

"Yes, he—" Susan nearly choked on the lump in her throat and then shook her head. _Don't think about it._

The Galman nodded, seeming to understand. "They are singing it for him and Queen Lucy, aren't they?" he asked quietly a moment later, still staring into the hearth. "I don't remember the whole story, but—" he broke off and looked up sharply. "Forgive me, your grace, I've upset you."

Susan shook her head down and hastily thrust her handkerchief back into the pocket of her gown. "No, it's alright, and you are quite correct. The story is a sad one, and a fitting tribute—they left Narnia to seek out and destroy evil and lost their lives in that pursuit." This was not how she had planned for the conversation to progress, but it was strangely comforting to sit with him in the dimly lit room and to speak more freely than she had in days. _That at least is something to be valued._

"Tarva and Alambil were twins, brother and sister, and descendants of Frank, the first king of Narnia," she continued, finding her composure again in the familiar words of the story. "They were not directly in line for the throne and so ventured beyond Narnia's borders in search of distant lands and adventure. Tarva, the lord of Justice, found his way to a dark land of sorcery and terror to overthrow a tyrant. Alambil, the lady of Peace, embarked on a voyage far to the North, guided by dreams of a people who desperately needed her aid."

"Both succeeded in their tasks, but neither ever returned to Narnia and legend tells of how Tarva at last came face to face with his enemy in a cavern beneath the Earth. He struck down the tyrant, The Lord of Death, and the land was freed, but not before his enemy had mortally wounded him. Alambil journeyed farther into the frozen North than any other Narnian in the known histories and found seas of ice and lands frozen in a terrible and eternal winter. There she found a kingdom whose people were enslaved to a Selkie King and swore an oath that she would free them. She tricked the King into taking human form, stole the seal pelt that gave him his power and his ability to shapeshift, and turned him over to the people he had wronged that they might seek justice." She paused, feeling the dampness of tears on her cheeks again as she recalled the next part of the story.

"I remember the end of the song," Gale told her, his voice barely above a whisper. "Alambil felt her brother's pain as the fatal blow fell and set sail for the sorcerer's dark land, desperate to reach him. They died side by side in the caverns, Tarva from his wounds and Alambil because of the bond they shared—that neither could live without the other."

Susan nodded, not trusting herself to speak, but Gale it seemed had not finished speaking. He was smiling, a little sadly, as he finished the tale, seeming to understand that she needed to hear the ending, even if she already knew it better than he did. "Aslan saw what they had done, how they had given their lives without question, and he placed them in the heavens as a reward for their courage and faith. Perhaps he will do the same for those you have lost."

The words were kind, and Susan knew he meant well by them, so she forced a smile as she braced herself to speak of what she had originally intended to discuss with him. _Courage and faith._ It seemed so easy for the heroes of old stories, less so for her when she found herself faced with a daunting task.

"May I speak plainly with you, my lord?"

"Of course, your grace." He ran a hand through his sun streaked fair hair and lapsed back into silence, not meeting her eyes. She wondered if he knew what she was going to ask.

"You told me that your father wishes you to marry me." There was no use skirting around the issue any longer—better to say what must be said quickly, before her resolve wavered again. "Are you especially opposed to the idea?"

He stared at her, obviously he had not guessed what she had wished to speak with him about, and shook his head slowly—more in astonishment than in anything else she suspected. "I-I don't want to marry anyone!" He seemed to have spoken more emphatically than intended and his face flushed. "I-that is, it's nothing against you, your grace, but I always thought—" he stopped, frowning down at his clasped hands and Susan nodded.

 _He thought to marry for love._ She had hoped never to have to marry at all, since marrying for love would likely never be an option for her. She had known for years that if she married it would be to form an alliance, and until that alliance was needed it was better to remain unattached. She liked Gale well enough, he was kind, well-mannered, and had been honest when many others would have lied to better their chances, but she knew she didn't love him—he was simply the most bearable of three impossibly daunting choices.

"We both have a duty to our countries," she said quietly, hating herself for what she was about to do. "Your father wants you to make an advantageous match—he wants you to be the next Galman king—and I need alliances backed by something stronger than easily broken treaties. A marriage between us makes both of those things possible."

He stared thoughtfully down at his interlaced fingers and Susan watched him, trying to gauge his reaction—not sure what response she hoped for more. For herself, and for him, she wanted him to say no, to walk away and free them both, but for Narnia—for Narnia she knew she must convince him to agree.

"That is a lot to gamble on an uncertain succession," he said after a long moment and looked up at last. "The current king has not yet declared me his heir and may never do so—it is merely my father's wish, not a guarantee."

 _Here it is, the leap that I cannot take back._ "If you will agree to marry me then, whether you are named as the heir to the throne or not, Narnia will back your claim. I am prepared to swear it, in writing if necessary." If Peter did come back he would be furious, she knew he might never forgive her, but now was not the time to think of that—it was the time to plan, to form alliances, and to ensure the survival of Narnia above all else.

Gale stared at her, his face a perfect portrait of shock, and she waited. Tarva and Alambil, Lucy and Edmund—they had all faced death and not wavered, surely she could face this with the same dignity.

At last the Galman nodded slowly, his expression of shock fading into a more impassive look. He had his duty too, and Susan knew that if anyone could understand the necessity that drove her it would be him. He stood and took her hand, bowing slightly to kiss it. "They call you The Gentle," he said quietly, regarding her intently. "But I think any who oppose you will find that they have greatly underestimated you, your grace. I will accept your offer, but on one condition."

"Which is?" Susan asked sharply. She had not planned for there to be other conditions. _Surely the throne of Galma is enough for him._

Gale smiled slightly, and his eyes were kind. "If your brother the High King returns from wherever it is he has ridden off to, and remains here to rule, you will consider yourself under no obligation—either to marry me to aid me in claiming the throne of Galma."

Susan stared at him in shock. It was more than she could have hoped for and she was so grateful that she could have wept. Instead she nodded silently, too overcome by relief to speak, and Gale seemed to understand. He smiled, bowed to her one last time, and slipped out of the room, pulling the door softly closed behind him.

 _At another time, under different circumstance, I might have grown to love him,_ she realised with a hint of regret. Before she could entirely make sense of that revelation however, the door flew open again and Tiberius burst into the room. His face was ashen and there was a streak of something dark across one side of his light coloured tunic.

"Murder!" he gasped, swaying slightly on his hooves, eyes wild with terror. "Queen Susan, please, you must come! He's killed her!"

 **Any theories about who has killed someone and who is dead? I'm sure someone has the right idea...**

 **Leave me a review, I do so love to hear what everyone thinks :-)**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	18. Visions and Negotiations

**Ummm...hi...it's been almost two months and I am incredibly sorry! I was finishing up exams at Uni, moving back home for the summer, then I was visiting my grandparents, and starting my summer job back up and completely lost track of time and didn't have much chance to write or read. Anyway, I am back with this chapter and will try to get the next on up in a more reasonable amount of time as well.**

 **Inna: Sorry for the heartbreak! So sorry it has taken me so long to update as well, I hope you are still interested in finding out who has been killed and what is going on with Edmund. :-) Thanks for reading!**

 **Aslan's Daughter: The Tarkheena is very silly...more on her to come. So glad you liked Gale! I am immensely enjoying building his character and there is definitely more to come for him as well. As for Edmund the Bard...that's actually part of the prequel to this story that goes into more detail on the events in Tashbaan, Emreth and Obridesh's backstory, and a tournament where Ed does some spying while disguised as a bard. And yes, I am already working on it, so am planning to post it after this story is complete. :-)**

 **Kaladin: Wow! Thank you so much for your kind words! That is an impressive compliment :-). I hope you enjoy these upcoming chapters as well.**

 _Susan knelt in one of the broad hallways of Cair Paravel, her skirt billowing out around her in a perfect circle on the stone floor, and her head bowed over a crumpled figure before her. Her hands were clenched into fists, fingers clutching the fabric of her dress, and Lucy could see her shoulders shaking with silent, nearly stifled sobs._

 _Peter and Edmund stood together in a dimly lit corridor, Brickle barely visible in the shadows behind Peter. Rhindon gleamed in Peter's hand and Edmund carried a torch and an unfamiliar blade, curved like a Calormene scimitar. They both looked pale and worn, and as Lucy watched Edmund staggered suddenly, as if struck, and the torch dropped from his hand and went out as it struck the floor. Lucy stumbled in the sudden darkness and tried to call out to her brothers, but already she felt the scene fading, rushing away from her as if it were being pulled away at a great speed._

 _Suddenly she was running through the dust and noise of a crowded marketplace, and it was only then that she realised the other visions had been silent and insubstantial. Noise seemed to assault her from every side. Wind, warm and smelling of the sea, brushed past her face as she ran, and she realised that she was barefoot, the warmth of the cobblestones solid and comforting beneath the calloused soles of her feet. Her hair tore free from the loose braid that had held it and flew free around her face as she dodged between merchant stalls and ducked around heavily laden donkey carts._

 _Glancing over, Lucy saw that Rhegus was running next to her, but he was far younger than she had ever seen him, and far wilder. His hair was long, pulled back from his face and secured with a thin strip of leather, and bright red—untouched by the streaks of grey she was familiar with. His face was unlined and youthful, though currently strained with the effort of evading pursuit and Lucy could hear his uneven, gasping breaths._

 _He ducked around a corner, with Lucy following, and she heard him curse breathlessly and realised that he could not see her—she was dreaming as she had been before when she had seen her family, though this dream felt far more real._

 _The alleyway ended abruptly in a tall, brick wall, that must have been the reason for Rhegus' muttered curse, and he skidded to a stop, nearly crashing into the barrier. He threw a desperate look over his shoulder and when Lucy followed the direction of his gaze she could see the gleaming helmets of soldiers bobbing above the market crowd, parting the people effortlessly as they advanced._

 _The alleyway was narrow, lined with abandoned merchant's stalls, but there did not seem to be other pathways branching out from it. Rhegus was trapped and Lucy felt a flutter of fear for her friend. It was just a dream, she knew that, but the reality and clarity of it was startling. She could feel the grit on the stones beneath her feet, the stir of the breeze through her tangled hair, and every detail of Rhegus' face was thrown into sharp relief by the midday sun—exactly as it would be if the scene before her were real._

 _Rhegus turned, his face set in an expression of grim resolve, back pressed against the bricks of the wall and feet planted firmly. He was unarmed, Lucy saw then, and remembered what he had told her of his time as a pirate. He had not been a killer, he had not been the type to carry weapons and to use them without thought to the lives he took. Somehow the dream had become a nightmare, Lucy realised as she stood frozen, watching her friend about to meet his death._

 _A hand appeared from the tattered silks that draped one of the abandoned stalls and closed over Rhegus' wrist, pulling at him. Rhegus spun, his eyes wild and Lucy was again struck by how young he looked, and how frightened. This was not the experienced, weathered sea captain she knew—this was a boy, alone and frightened, hemmed in by enemies, and defenceless._

" _This way!" called a voice, low, urgent, and undeniably that of a girl. Rhegus relaxed visibly, though his eyes remained wary, and he pushed through the silks, following the slight figure whose hand was still clamped around his wrist. It was dark behind the stall, but Lucy could see the faint outline of an opening in the brick wall of the alleyway. It wasn't a doorway exactly, it looked more like a section of the wall had collapsed unevenly, making a small gap in the barrier that led back out into the sunlight and bustle of the marketplace._

 _Rhegus hesitated, pulling away from the girl's grip slightly, and Lucy knew what he was wondering. Could he trust her? How was he to know if she was not merely leading him back towards another troupe of guards? Lucy could hear the tramp of the other guards' booted feet behind them and knew that they were close. The stall would not hide them if the guards searched, and surely they would search—they would see at once that the wall was too high for Rhegus to have scaled it. The only chance of escape lay with the shadowed figure of the girl, and Lucy could see the moment when Rhegus realised that too. His shoulders straightened, as if he were bracing himself for the inevitable moment of his death, and he let the girl pull him forward, through the gap in the wall, and back into the blinding sunlight of the street beyond._

 _Lucy followed and caught a clear glimpse of the girl for the first time. She was slender, dressed in the bright, flowing garments of the Island nobility, and there was a scarf of pale gold silk wrapped around her head, hiding her hair and her face beneath it. She hurried on, pulling Rhegus after her urgently, and Lucy was about to follow when a hand descended on her shoulder, shaking her._

 _15_ _th_ _. of Greenroof, 1012—Second-day_

She opened her eyes to the pale light of dawn and saw Rhegus bending over her, his hand on her shoulder. His face was lined and weathered, his hair shorter, wild, and streaked with grey, but she could still see the striking resemblance to the young man he had been in her dream. _How odd,_ she thought, still clinging to the threads of the vivid images that spun behind her eyes, _to have dreamed something that seemed so real._

"Queen Lucy, it's the pirates, your majesty. They 'ave come back." He said it in the same resigned, unhappy tone as someone might have said _"It's a horde of locusts, your majesty, and they've come to eat all of our crops, and possibly us as well."_ Lucy, however, had never been happier to have someone announce the arrival of pirates.

She was fully awake in a moment, and had leapt to her feet almost before Rhegus finished speaking. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, appearing fondly resigned to her high spirits.

"Where are they?" Lucy asked, restraining herself from bouncing on her toes like an excited three-year-old with some difficulty. _Really, Lucy!_ Susan's voice scolded from somewhere in her memory. _You must learn to be poised._ Lucy sometimes spared a moment to despair that she would ever be poised, but currently counted it a small victory that her feet remained firmly planted on the sandy beach—even if her feet were bare and her hair was gritty with sand.

Rhegus regarded her with the same fondly indulgent look that often graced the features of her older brothers, and pointed across the expanse of water, glimmering faintly in the dawn light, to where a triple-masted ship with golden sails was just visible in the distance. Lucy squinted at it, rubbing the last of the sleep from her eyes, and frowned.

"How can you tell it's the pirates? I can't see a standard or anything to indicate what banner they sail under." In fact, the ship was still so far away that it was rather difficult to tell anything about it, except its size and the unusual colour of its sails. Rhegus would have needed truly remarkable eyesight to have spotted something she had not.

Rhegus sighed, and ran his hands through his hair again, standing it on end as if he had just been dragged backwards through a hedge. "The captain, your majesty, 'e always sails wi' no banner an' golden sails on 'is ships. Balthasar's uncommon vain, even for a pirate," he added, a hint of disdain colouring his voice.

Lucy was surprised by his tone. She knew Rhegus had broken with the pirates to become an honest sailor, but she had supposed he might still harbour some fondness for the captain who had saved him from begging in the streets all those years ago.

"Is he so bad?" she asked, still squinting at the distant sails, though they seemed much closer now than they had a few moments before—the ship was sailing fast, driven by a strong morning wind.

"'E's not so bad, Queen Lucy," Rhegus allowed with another sigh, "But ye 'ave to understand, 'e's lost a lot in 'is life, an 'e doesn't much care for royals. 'E may not hate ye as such, but I wouldn't set much store by 'is being 'elpful."

Lucy considered for a moment, but even Rhegus' continued warning could not lessen the hope sight of the sails had stirred within her. After three days stranded on the Island tempers were running high, and Lucy had begun to fear that, if the pirates did not return soon, at least some of the ongoing disagreements were likely to come to blows.

There was little food—a few stringy rabbits caught in makeshift traps, berries and roots gathered from the distant grove of trees, and a handful of stale loaves smuggled from the _Hyaline_ in the general confusion following the pirates' attack. There was plenty of water, but it had to be carried from the distant grove as well, and many of the quarrels the sprang up concerned who ought to be responsible for making the journey to the grove.

Most troubling of all to Lucy was the continuing tension between Merton, the Faun captain of the guard, and Rhegus. Merton had always been loyal and capable, but Lucy could see that he was struggling with the realisation that Rhegus had been a pirate, had lied to his sovereigns about his identity for years, and was now relying on his connections with his questionably moral former shipmates to help his Queen.

Lucy could see the validity of his concerns, but she could not bring herself to share them. Rhegus was loyal, he was her friend, and she trusted him entirely. It was concerning however, that Merton seemed unable to understand any of this and had resorted to sulking most of the time and barely speaking unless giving distinctly cross sounding orders to his soldiers. It was endlessly frustrating to Lucy that she was unable to stop the whispers questioning Rhegus' motives and loyalty that were constantly spreading through the makeshift camp and she found herself sighing, not for the first time, as she eagerly watched the approaching sail.

 _At last!_ Being inactive had never suited Lucy and here, finally, was the opportunity for useful action she had been waiting for.

"How are we to know that this...this pirate is trustworthy, your majesty?" Lucy had not heard Captain Merton approach and his voice startled her more than she would have liked. The Faun was standing behind them, arms crossed over his chest and face set in an unmistakably hostile expression as he watched Rhegus. Lucy could not doubt that the guard was not speaking of the approaching pirate captain, but rather of Rhegus, and she felt the tall sea captain tense beside her, as if expecting a blow.

"Perhaps," the Faun continued stubbornly, his voice tight with barely controlled rage, "He is simply turning us over to be killed or ransomed now that our identities are known."

Lucy gritted her teeth, holding back a scathing comment with difficulty. _How dare he!_ Her hands were shaking, and she clenched them into fists at her sides. Few Narnians had ever seen her truly furious and Susan had always counseled her that it was better this way.

" _Take a breath, keep your face calm; think before you speak and say something that cannot be unsaid."_ Lucy took a shaky breath and forced her hands to relax. Susan always knew what to do, even when she wasn't there, and Lucy spared a moment to be grateful for her years of counsel.

"Captain Merton, I can assure you that Captain Rhegus is not plotting to turn us over for ransom. It was my idea to speak with the pirates and request passage from them and I am certain it will reassure you to hear that the good Captain was very opposed to the idea and has done all in his power to dissuade me from such a course of action." She kept her voice even with difficulty, but knew there was little she could do about her expression—her face had always betrayed her moods, no matter how hard she had tried to force it to remain blank and neutral.

Merton shifted his hooves uneasily and glanced from Lucy to Rhegus, and back again. Lucy thought his expression, half disbelief and half horrified fear, would likely have been amusing to her brothers, perhaps even to Susan, but she felt her anger fade at the sight of it, replaced by grudging sympathy. She knew he had meant to challenge Rhegus, not her, and was now horrified to discover that the plan he had openly spoken out against had been his Queen's plan all along. A few of the other guards, those newest to Cair Paravel and most unfamiliar with the ways of their rulers, edged away from the unfortunate Faun, as if expecting him to be struck down for his blunder.

Lucy sighed. This was what she hated most about ruling, this fear that she would suddenly strike out against those who served her, those who had her best interests at heart, however misguided they might be.

"I do beg your pardon, your majesty," Merton said, a little unsteadily. He had been at Cair Paravel for years, and Lucy supposed he knew that she wasn't about to have him exiled or executed, but he did seem to realise that he had gone too far. "I meant no offence." The implied _"to you"_ hung so heavily in the air that Lucy wondered if everyone was aware of it, but she let the statement stand and nodded.

Already her anger had faded to a faint annoyance, and she felt her fists unclench and let her shoulders relax. "Gather the others," she told him, smiling to ease the remaining tension that ran through the small cluster of guards around her and the two captains.

Merton nodded, saluted smartly, and hurried away, the cluster of guards trailing after him, already beginning to talk of other things with the air of men who were desperately trying to change the subject from something unpleasant to something slightly less dangerous. Lucy watched them go with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach—she hated to be the cause for their discomfort.

Rhegus whistled between his teeth, patted his pockets distractedly as if searching for his pipe, and then shook his grizzled head. "Ye 'aven't 'eard the last o' 'im, Queen Lucy," he said wearily, and Lucy nodded.

"I know, and I know he means well, I just wish—" she trailed off and shrugged, turning her gaze back to the ocean. She might not have been angry anymore, but her previous good spirits had yet to return. She felt tired and irritable—her skin seemed to crawl with a nervous foreboding. Something was wrong, not here, not now on the beach with the sun rising, golden above the water, but somewhere and urgently.

She fixed her eyes on the golden sails, plainly visible now, nearly close enough that the ship would have to drop anchor and send out a landing party in the boats. Illogically she remembered her dream, the younger Rhegus running through the streets of an island city and the girl who had caught his hand. She wanted to ask, heard Susan's ever-present warning not to pry into other peoples' business, and bit her lip to keep the question from tumbling out anyway.

Rhegus pulled out his pipe and clamped the stem between his teeth, frowning over at her, brows furrowed in thought. "Wha' is i', Queen Lucy?"

Lucy sighed—Rhegus always knew when she had a question she wanted to ask and was forcing herself not to and she couldn't help wondering how he knew. She had to ask her question now—he didn't mind, or he wouldn't have said anything, of course, he couldn't know what she was going to ask yet. _Maybe he will mind, maybe he'll be angry._ She glanced over quickly. Rhegus didn't look like someone who was about to fly into a rage over a potentially troublesome question.

"Was Estelle wearing gold when you met her?"

Rhegus raised a hand, very slowly, and took the pipe from between his teeth. Lucy watched as he turned it in his hands, examining every detail of the stem and bowl before slipping it back into his pocket. After another long moment he nodded slowly, and ran a hand through his hair. "How did ye know, if ye don't mind my askin'?" He didn't sound angry, or sad, but his accent had thickened perceptibly, and Lucy felt as if she had done something terribly cruel by asking him.

"I—" Lucy paused, considering what she should say. If what she had seen was real then it must be like the visions Aslan had shown her a few days before, and if Aslan had seen fit to show her then there must have been a reason. "Aslan came to me, my first day here," she said at last, making up her mind to tell him the whole story. "He showed me things, in the water of that pool I found, and then last night I dreamed that I was running through a marketplace on one of the islands, and you were there. There were guards chasing you and you ran into an alleyway that ended in a wall—there was no way out. I thought you were going to be caught and killed," she admitted, shuddering slightly at the memory. Of course, her fear didn't make much sense to her now that she was awake and knew Rhegus had survived and was standing beside her, but at the time it had been a terrible thing to contemplate.

Rhegus was watching her with a very strange expression, half wariness and half amazement, on his sun-browned face, and Lucy wished she knew what he was thinking. He still didn't seem angry and she hoped that she wasn't making him sad either. He raised a curious eyebrow at her sudden silence, obviously encouraging her to go on, and after a moment Lucy took a deep breath and continued her tale—watching his face carefully.

"Just as I was sure the guards were about to catch you, a girl pulled you through a gap in the stalls and through a broken bit of wall, back into the other street. I didn't see her face, but I thought—well, from your story, I though it must have been her," Lucy finished speaking in a rush, the words tumbling out quickly as if speed could lessen the power the must hold to remind her friend of his lost love.

Rhegus nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the ship and jaw set in a grim line. "Aye, Queen Lucy, ye saw Estelle. Ye said Aslan showed ye these things?" He turned back to her, expression unreadable, and Lucy nodded silently. "Then 'E must 'ave 'ad a reason," Rhegus continued quietly. "Ye've seen other things as well?" He was obviously eager to change the subject and Lucy did not try to stop him.

"Yes," she said instead, scuffing her bare toes through the damp sand and uncovering a few, small sea shells. "I saw my family, Cair Paravel in mourning, Su—Queen Susan, that is—kneeling by a body, and my brothers in a strange corridor. I don't know what it all means, but I think something is dreadfully wrong, Captain," Lucy admitted, remembering her visions in the wood as well. "We have to get to Narrowhaven."

"Well," Captain Rhegus tipped his head towards the rowboats that were being lowered from the pirate ship, now anchored in the deep water some distance out from the beach. "This is our chance, Queen Lucy, may Aslan 'elp us."

Lucy nodded, squinting to make out the figures climbing into the boats and settling at the oars. There were three row boats, with about ten men in each, and from what Lucy could see they were all heavily armed. An old man stood at the front of the lead boat, leaning on what appeared to be a walking staff, but might just as easily have been a long spear. Rhegus pointed to him, his face twisting into a frown, as he ran his other hand through his hair.

"Tha's Captain Balthasar," he told her, speaking softly. "'E'll likely make 'imself unpleasant, but, 'e's not likely to mean us 'arm until 'e's 'eard what ye 'ave to say."

Lucy had no time to reply as Captain Merton returned just then with the rest of the guards and sailors trailing after him. Their faces were grim and drawn as they stood, shoulder to shoulder, in a protective line behind Lucy and she was glad of their presence.

They stood in tense silence, broken only by the sound of waves breaking against the sand at their feet and a few shouts from the men in the boats, until the landing party splashed into the surf and dragged the rowboats up onto the beach. They were a rough looking lot, Islanders and a few Calormenes, all with brown, weathered faces and long hair pulled back and held by strips of leather. Most were nearing middle age, though the man Rhegus had pointed out as Balthasar must have been nearly seventy and was undoubtedly the oldest person present.

Lucy suddenly felt both very young and very short when faced with the group of towering, heavily armed men, and she dug her toes into the sand as a reminder not to take a step back.

Balthasar stepped forward, leaning heavily on the staff, which did not appear to be a staff after all, and looked the bedraggled group before him over with a critical eye. As he took another step forward Lucy could see that his spine was twisted unnaturally, making his gait uneven, and she could not help wondering if he had been born crippled or if it was the result of some injury.

Balthasar did not seem particularly interested in her, the sailors, or the guards, but when his eyes fell on Rhegus his lined face split into a brilliant smile. "Red!" the old man called jovially, leaning on his staff in a way that made his shoulders appear even more twisted.

Lucy frowned, there was something familiar in his face, in the way he stood, and in the expression on Rhegus' face, but she couldn't quite place it. However, before she could devote further thought to the matter Captain Balthasar was speaking again.

"It's a merry band o' misfits ye've found yerself now, ain't i'?" He stopped just short of where Rhegus stood and peered up at the younger man.

His accent, Lucy noted, was like Rhegus' but thicker, his voice was rougher, and rather than good natured roguishness she saw something cold and calculating in his sharp eyes as he studied his old apprentice's face. Still, she wasn't quite afraid of him, and he hadn't said or done anything particularly unpleasant yet. She looked quickly to Rhegus, curious to see his reaction, but his expression was as stony and distant as it would have been if Balthasar had not spoken to him at all.

He said nothing, gave no indication that he had anything to say, and Balthasar shook his head and clucked his tongue in a vaguely reprimanding manner. "Yer manner's 'aven't improved, Red." The old captain shook his head again and turned his gaze on Lucy, taking an uneven step towards her as if noticing her presence for the first time.

In a flash that nearly stole her breath and sent her mind spinning dizzily, she recognised him. He was the hunched, old man she had seen in the pool of water when Aslan had been with her. And, suddenly, it made sense, the pieces falling together into a glimmering tapestry of realised truth. Aslan had shown her the future, in flashes and pieces she did not yet understand, but they had been true predictions nonetheless.

Somewhere in the future Susan would stand in mourning atop a parapet draped in black and a stranger would reach to comfort her. Somewhere Peter would sit beside a foreign hearth with his head in his hands and his companions unable to comfort him. Sometime, most likely soon, Rhegus and Balthasar would stand together talking. Edmund's face, pale and bruised, flashed across her mind and she wondered how near that future was and wondered if it was before or after she had seen Peter and Edmund together in the corridor. Perhaps all of it it was already happening, perhaps it already had happened, and she had been meant to do something and had not realised soon enough.

 _No,_ she told herself sharply. Aslan would not have shown her something that she was meant to stop, knowing that she would be too slow. If she was meant to change things then she would, and if she wasn't then there must be another reason, another plan that Aslan could see, and she could not.

The rest of what she had seen still made no sense—the Sea, the sound of glass breaking and the brief flash of something dark, and evil, shattering against stone. She shook her head. _I'll understand when it's time._

"Well?" Balthasar asked, looking at her intently—even with his stooped shoulders and twisted spine he was taller than she was and had to look down at her.

Lucy blinked at him for a moment, her mind blank. She realised he must have been speaking to her, but, as so often happened, she had been lost in her own thoughts and missed hearing his words. Before her lapse of concentration could become fully apparent, however, Captain Rhegus had stepped forward to speak with Balthasar and she recognised the scene immediately.

Rhegus looked worried as he leaned down to speak with his former captain and his voice was too low for Lucy to catch his words, but she could see from the derisive line of Balthasar's mouth that whatever Rhegus was saying was not being well received.

She stood indecisively for a moment, realising, not for the first time, how unsuited her temperament was for negotiation, before she squared her shoulders, pushed the hair back from her face, and stepped forward to speak with the pirate herself.

"An' I don' see why I should wan' 'o listen to ye," Balthasar was saying, sounding distinctly bored.

Rhegus pushed a hand through his hair and shook his head—more in frustration than despair, Lucy thought—and looked as though her were about to strike his former mentor. Lucy really couldn't see what good a fist fight would do, and cleared her throat loudly—hoping that the pirate would at least acknowledge her presence. He did, and turned to her with raised eyebrows and an expression of mild disdain.

This was not a particularly promising start to a negotiation, but Lucy supposed it was the best she could hope for after staring vacantly at the fellow when he had first spoken to her. Still, she needed to at least try.

"Good morrow, Captain," she greeted him, with as much dignity as she could muster while barefoot and dressed in the rags of a gown that had not been particularly stately even before she had fallen off a ship and been stranded on an island. She could only imagine Susan's horror if her older sister could see her now.

Balthasar's bushy grey eyebrows drew together in an expression that might have been annoyance, but was more likely derisive amusement. "I' speaks! He exclaimed, sounding jovial and looking more dangerous than the tone of his voice suggested should be possible. Out of the corner of her eye Lucy saw Rhegus tense, his expression bordering on murderous.

Lucy, for her part, chose to ignore the obviously pointed comment, and forced herself to smile in as charming a manner as she could. "I am so very glad to meet you, Captain Balthasar, and I do so hope you will be able to help us."

Balthasar's eyebrows descended until they seemed nearly on a level with his eyes. "'Elp ye? Why should I? Red's 'old me wha' i' is ye wan', but I canno' see why I should care. I 'ave yer ship already, an all I could wan' from i'." The other pirates behind him, who had been silent up to this point nodded their agreement and a few scattered cheers of approval rose from them.

Lucy had never wanted to run quite as much as she did in that moment. _I can't do this!_ She thought desperately, wondering how quickly she could make the journey back to the trees where she had seen Aslan. Perhaps He would be there again, perhaps He would tell her what she ought to do. But she knew it wouldn't be like that this time—there were things she had to do for herself, though she knew she was never truly alone, and this was one of them. Aslan had made her a queen, and this was part of being a queen—however difficult it might prove to be.

 _What would the others do?_ she wondered desperately, aware that Captain Balthasar was still watching her expectantly—waiting for her response with confidence that whatever she said it would hold no power to convince him, or his crew.

Susan would try charming him with grace and good manners—she would know precisely what to say to flatter him into helping her. Edmund would find something clever to say, a strategy that Balthasar could not hope to argue and a way of presenting it that made it seem like it had been the captain's plan all along, or that made it impossible for Balthasar to refuse without losing face. Peter would most likely just challenge him to a duel and win with just enough effort to not embarrass his opponent too badly. Lucy usually invited troublesome subjects to tea and talked with them, but she highly doubted that strategy would work with the pirates.

 _I know what to do,_ she realised, feeling somewhat shocked by that fact. For years she had watched her siblings deal with similar situations, she knew how each of them would have dealt with it, and she knew just how to combine all of their methods into one of her own which she was certain would not fail.

"Captain Balthasar," she began, giving him her brightest smile. "Perhaps we can come to an understanding. I need a ship and you have many, including the one you took from me and my crew. I am certain you know that attacking a Narnian queen is an act of war, but I am perfectly willing to forgive this action—which I am sure you committed in ignorance of my identity—if you will agree to take my crew and me to Narrowhaven at once, and will return my ship and its cargo to me. Indeed, I would be so very grateful, and I am certain that, once they hear of your kindness, my royal siblings will reward you most richly." Lucy felt a momentary flash of satisfaction—surely even Susan could scarcely have seemed more gracious.

Balthasar narrowed his eyes and peered down at her, obviously trying to decide if she was serious about him being richly rewarded.

"You have nothing to lose by helping us, Captain," Lucy continued, trying to mirror Edmund's most reasonable tone. "And surely you do not wish to be at war with Narnia. We have many more ships and an army great enough to give the Calormene Tisroc pause." She wasn't actually sure how many ships they had, or whether the Tisroc would actually pause because of their army, but it sounded like the sort of thing Peter would say.

Still, Balthasar seemed undecided, which left her with only her own strategy of offering friendship. Ignoring Rhegus' warning look she stepped forward and slid her arm through Balthasar's, as if he were escorting her to dinner. "Oh do say yes, Captain! I'm certain we shall be the best of friends! I so love to sail and hear tales of far off places and sea monsters, and I am certain you have seen many of both."

For a moment the pirate looked genuinely startled and bewildered, and then, very slowly, he smiled—a real, open smile, without a hint of derision.

"Well now," he said, then paused to clear his throat. "Don' know about all tha', yer majesty, but if ye're certain abou' the reward, then I may know a few wild tales o' the 'igh seas. Narrowhaven, did ye say ye wanted to reach?"

 **I'm not sure about the ending to the chapter...it seems a but rushed to me, but I did desperately want to post! Hope you enjoyed the chapter, the introduction of Balthasar, who will be developed as a character more in future chapters, and the added details of Lucy's visions. Do let me know what you think! I love reviews, and I know it's been awhile since I updated, but I hope some of you are still reading. Please let me know!**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	19. Beards and Idiotic Brothers

**This is certainly not the chapter you all deserve after so long a wait, but, unfortunately, it's the chapter I have time to post. This means it's short, possibly rushed, but contains some very important details regarding more than one important plot point.**

 **On a different note I want to say thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, and is still reading this story. It is ending up far longer than I had planned and is certainly taking much longer to write, but it will be finished and posted, and that is because of all of you! Thank you!**

 **Aslan's Daughter: So happy you are still around! There is much more of Lucy and the pirates in the future! Both in this story and in others I have planned. Glad to hear you are looking forward to the prequel! Hopefully it will live up to your expectations!  
**

 **Inna: Diplomatic charisma is the perfect term for it I think! Glad to hear you are enjoying the story.**

" _Who is he?" His own voice startled him badly—he was certain he had not spoken but his lips moved to form the question nonetheless. It was dark, not the darkness of night, but the darkness of unlit caverns beneath the earth, of claustrophobic rooms whose darkness was unbroken by torches or windows—the darkness of the blind or of the dead._

 _His hand moved without his command, grasping something cool and solid._ An iron post, _his sluggish mind informed him._ A gate, _it amended a moment later, though how the conclusion had been reached he could not say._

" _A northern spy," Another voice answered from the darkness to his left, on a level with his ear and very close beside him, deep, confident, and familiar in a way that made his skin prickle uncomfortably._

Danger, _his mind warned, though he had no power to flee or fight._

" _He is no one you need concern yourself with," the voice went on, disgust seeming to drip from every word. "Though perhaps I misjudged his tenacity when I deemed him too unimportant to search for myself and sent those incompetent fools after him instead."_

 _There was a low scuffing sound,_ boots against stone _, and then the dull thud of a kick against something far less unyielding than stone._

 _He blinked, eyes straining, and felt his hand tighten involuntarily around the iron of the gate post. His eyes stung and when he opened them from blinking he found himself staring at his own hand, knuckles white as, suddenly dizzy, he clutched the gate for support. Pain stabbed through his head, momentarily blinding him again with a disorienting flash of red that faded quickly to blackness._

 _Blinking furiously, he tried to focus, willing his sight to return, and after a moment it did, though the scene before him was now blurred—out of focus as if seen from beneath water or through a thick pane of cheap glass._

 _A man lay in the street at his feet, dressed in battered armour with a sword just out of reach of one outstretched hand. Another man stood over him, looming and familiar, his foot drawn back to kick the fallen man again._

" _Stop!" This time he had meant to speak, though the word came out garbled, letters slurred and running together into an unintelligible sound of protest. The scene before him blurred still more, the street seeming to pitch and roll like something seen from the deck of a ship in the midst of the storm._

 _The man turned, more familiar still when his face was visible, though he still could not connect the harsh proud features to a name, and the expression of disgust on his face was replaced by one of nearly frantic concern._

" _Are you well? You've gone pale as Zardeenah's ghost."_

 _His hand lifted, shaking, to his face as he felt the warmth of blood begin to flow from his nose. His sight was fading to blurs of shadowy colour and agonising flashes of light and then coming back into focus with dizzying clarity._

 _The moon was bright, illuminating the street with a strange light that was nearly as bright as that of day, only silvery and somehow spectral draping everything with strange, dancing shadows._

 _There was blood on the paving stones, not enough for a killing blow only a dark splash against the moonlight street, and there—lying face down was a man. Dressed in a battered armour, sprawled limply, he appeared lifeless and that thought was accompanied by an indefinable chill. The man's turban had come half unwound and trailed away from his head enough to reveal an untidy patch of blond hair. That was important, recognisable, but he could not remember why, and his sight was fading again, shapes running together in blurs and streaks as his head spun dizzily._

 _There was a hand on his arm, the creak of the gate as it swung open, and he was being hurried along a different path where the air was heavy with the smell of orange blossoms. The man who seemed so familiar was speaking urgently, repeating an unfamiliar name, questioning—pleading._

 _Falling. No sight. No sound. Hands on his shoulders pushing him deeper into the darkness. Then the dizzying, disorienting sensation of falling upwards. No, not falling, rushing upwards. The hands holding him down fell away. There was a surprised grunt, then roar, the sound somehow golden and bright—comforting and ferocious all in the same moment._

 _21_ _st_ _of Greenroof, 1012—Firstday_

His eyes flew open and he found himself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. His head still ached, but it was distant and muted now—not the sharp stab of agony he remembered.

None of this had been part of the plan. He _had_ made a plan, regardless of what Peter might think about his habit of rushing into strange or dangerous situations, he always made plans. Whether or not they usually worked was a topic of some debate, and this was undoubtedly one of the times when his carefully constructed plans had been utterly useless.

Everything had been going perfectly, he remembered that much. Meeting the Tarkaan in the inn had seemed like a stroke of unbelievably good luck, which, now that he thought about it more, he really should have been more suspicious of. If things seemed unbelievably lucky, then that usually meant they _were_ unbelievable. Finding nothing in Obridesh's room should have been his first clue that he was in danger, but, like a fool, he had blundered on into whatever trap it was that he could not remember being sprung.

His head throbbed distantly as he rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. Disappearing for—what had Peter said it was, nine days?—had not been his plan. Neither had forgetting everything that had occurred and wandering through Tashbaan, barefoot, and in the middle of a rainstorm. Even less part of his plan was his idiotically protective elder brother following him to Calormen, blundering through Tashbaan drawing attention to himself, and eventually making a scene by sending for a Centauress to come to a decrepit inn in the worst part of the city.

The aforementioned protective idiot was currently slumped in a chair beside the narrow, thin cot Edmund found himself lying on, looking utterly exhausted, as he snored quietly. This was rather concerning, not because Peter was hovering by his bedside, but because he couldn't quite seem to connect his current location and awareness to his last memory of sitting beside a strange hearth with Menwy asking him quiet, concerned questions. Edmund made a point of never sleeping so deeply that he was not aware of being moved—unless he was seriously injured—and this lapse in control worried him nearly as much as his failure to remember the previous days' events.

Other than his headache he seemed relatively well, which was mildly reassuring. The cut on his hand had healed to a thin line of reddened skin and he examined it curiously, vague recollections of confronting Obridesh about poison Sitting up he rolled his stiff shoulders and grimaced as the ancient bedframe creaked deafeningly.

Peter started violently, nearly falling out of his chair, and Edmund sighed, half-annoyed and half-regretful. He really hadn't meant to wake his brother, the poor chap looked as exhausted as Edmund felt, and now that he was awake the inevitable questions were likely to begin. _Not that I'm very likely to be able to answer any of them._

Peter blinked, his confusion only clearing when he saw that Edmund was awake and sitting up. Edmund stared at him—his mind felt slow, memory hazy and confused—but there was something different about his brother. It didn't seem alarming, only somehow confusing and out of place—as if something had changed to quickly to be seen—one moment not there and the next suddenly appearing.

Peter frowned, brows furrowing in concern and something else that Edmund could not quite place. "Ed? Are you-"

That was it—a change so obvious that he was amazed he had not recognised it at once. "What in the name of sanity have you got on your face?" he demanded, headache temporarily fading in the wake of shock.

Peter blinked, obviously startled, then grinned a touch ruefully as he ran a hand over the short beard that had most certainly not been present on his chin the last time Edmund had seen him in Cair Paravel. "I've been a little busy," he admitted, still grinning—the other, unidentifiable emotion replaced by relief.

Edmund wrinkled his nose, considering the change critically. "It doesn't suit you," he concluded at last. "Although, it might prove very useful in frightening away empty-headed duchesses. You look like an outlaw from the Western Wild."

"You're lucky I've missed you," Peter grumbled good-naturedly. "Otherwise I might be inclined to club you over the head. It can't be that bad, can it?" He was still grinning like an idiot, and it was becoming rather alarming.

" _I think Susan is planning your funeral."_ The memory was hazy, accompanied by a blinding stab of pain behind his eyes, but he was certain he had not imagined the words. "You really thought I was dead, didn't you?"

The question seemed to have an enormously sobering effect on Peter and his expression was suddenly serious as he nodded. "I did, we all did, and then—" he broke off, frowning, and shook his head. "You do know who I am, don't you?"

Edmund frowned at him, feeling that he was missing something terribly important. It made his head ache. "Should I not? I know you grew a beard but that doesn't—"

Peter cut him off with another scowl and an impatient gesture. "It's not a joke, Ed. Last night you, well, for a moment it seemed like—never mind," his smile was forced as he shrugged and Edmund recognised the other, strange expression at last.

 _Fear._ "Never mind what?"

Peter shrugged. "Do you remember coming here last night?"

It seemed like a deliberate change of topic, but Edmund sensed that now was not the time to push his brother too far. Peter was not easily frightened, and it had been years since Edmund had seen that expression of fear in his brother's eyes. Dismissing that for now, he frowned, trying to remember.

"Not exactly, he admitted at last. "I remember waking up, I think. I was only the floor, and my nose was bleeding, but nothing before that." He concentrated, trying to remember further back, trying to sort through the hazy blur that the last nine days seemed to have become.

 _Moonlight on Calormene helmets. The dizzy spin of the street before him as the hilt of his knife left his hand. A grunt of pain, the realisation of some fatal mistake, and a hard blow to the back of his knees._

 _Hard stones beneath him as he knelt with the point of a scimitar at his throat._

" _You poisoned me."_

" _Are you well? Brother, are you well? Look at me!"_

 _A hand on his shoulder, clutching it tightly enough to leave bruises._

His nose was bleeding, he realised dully, feeling the warmth of blood dripping through the fingers of a hand he did not remember raising to his face. Someone was shaking his shoulder, shouting for help, but the voice echoed until it was unrecognisable. The face of the man bending over him was blurred too, and he barely had time to realise that the name being called was not his before the world spun away in a haze of light and colour.

The next time Edmund woke he found himself looking up into the serious face of a Centaur. His head still ached, but his mind seemed clearer, thoughts more focused, and he recognised the face above him.

"Menwy?" He tried to sit up and found himself pushed back firmly.

"Better to lie still," Menwy warned, dark eyes impassive as they met his. "Your nose is still bleeding, and I think you have frightened your brother quite enough for one day, your majesty."

His throat was dry, and he swallowed painfully, nearly gagging at the taste of blood. Face still expressionless, Menwy slid an arm behind his shoulders. "Sit up slowly," she warned, half supporting him as she handed him a mug of tea. "Best drink that quickly though," she advised. "It's bitter." Edmund scowled at the murky contents of the mug and suddenly found himself missing Lucy. Menwy was a competent healer, but she had none of Lucy's cheerful brightness.

"Quickly," the Centauress repeated, the first hint of concern beginning to show in her expression.

The tea was foul, but it did seem to rid his mouth of the taste of blood, though he wasn't sure the bitter aftertaste of what herbs had been in it was much of an improvement. Menwy took the mug back and handed him a damp square of fabric instead.

"Hold this under your nose," she ordered shortly. "And don't tilt your head back—you'll choke."

"Where's Peter?" he asked, doing his best to staunch the flow of blood still dripping from his nose.

"Outside, he wouldn't stop pacing." Menwy stood, which was quite a feat considering she had been kneeling in close quarters, though she had to keep her head bent to keep from hitting it against the low ceiling. She took half a step towards the door, knocking the already unsteady bedside table over with her hind legs, and looked over her shoulder, warning plain on her face. "Whatever you did, I would advise against doing it again. It's a wonder you have any blood left."

The door shut quietly behind her and Edmund scowled after her, listening to the sound of her hooves retreating. A moment later the door opened again, and Peter peered around it, appearing rather shaken.

"Ed?"

Ignoring Menwy's advice Edmund tilted his head back as he motioned vaguely with the hand not pressed against his face. Peter seemed to take that as an invitation and approached, rather more cautiously than Edmund felt the situation warranted.

"You'll choke," he warned, perching on the edge of the chair.

Edmund rolled his eyes, though the feeling of blood in the back of his throat was rather alarming. "So I've been informed. What happened?"

Peter shrugged, still looking a little pale. "You were telling me what you remembered, then you went pale as a ghost and started shaking. By the time I got Menwy in here you were covered in blood and unconscious. Are you alright?"

Edmund considered for a moment and shrugged. "I think so, my head hurts," he admitted grudgingly. It was no use trying to hide anything from Peter when he was this concerned, and Edmund found that he was currently too tired to try. "And I think I've been advised against trying to remember for the moment."

Peter nodded, unsurprised. "I thought that might have been it. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

Edmund would have snorted in annoyance if he hadn't been afraid of covering the room in blood. "And I suppose you knew this was going to happen if you asked me what should be a perfectly simple question?"

Peter scowled and shook his head. "I didn't know what would happen, but I should have guessed it wouldn't be anything good. Just—maybe let me figure this one out without you?"

 _Not likely._ But he knew better than to voice the thought aloud. "Where's Peridan?" he asked instead. "He was with me last I remember, at least, I think he was." The nosebleed seemed to have stopped at last and he examined the blood-soaked fabric Menwy had given him with disgust, almost missing Peter's frown. "What?" he asked, tossing the fabric onto the ruins of the table. "Was he not with me last night?"

"No, and no one's seen him since you disappeared. I even asked that snake Lemesh. How you find these people I will never understand."

Edmund glared at him, only half registering the news about Peridan. "Lemesh? Lion's Mane Peter, how did you even find him? Good spies are hard enough for me to find and if anyone saw you talking with him I'll be in need of a new one."

Peter shrugged, not looking remotely apologetic. "Brickle told me. Besides, he strikes me as someone who can look after himself quite capably."

"Did he try to knife you?" Edmund asked, temporarily distracted by this rather amusing prospect. "He usually tries to knife people."

Peter shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. "I was in too much of a hurry to allow him sufficient time to do anything except answer my questions. He didn't know where you were, and doesn't even know who Peridan is, but assured me that no Northern spies were being held in the Tisroc's dungeons."

Edmund nodded, if he was being entirely honest he had expected an answer of that sort regarding Peridan. Whatever the Tarkaan was involved in, beyond what he already knew, Edmund doubted that the Tisroc, however long he managed to survive, knew anything about it. Obridesh was not the type of man to share his plans with anyone who he believed he could not entirely control.

"He'll be in Obridesh's palace," he said, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt. _Unless he's dead or a spy himself,_ he added silently, though judging by Peter's expression his brother was having the same doubts. "Obridesh has a network of tunnels beneath his palace, connecting it to the cellars of various other nobles. We can slip in through those. There's a door, in the sewers I think, and it shouldn't be too hard to find our way from there."

"We?" Peter's frown had become somewhat dangerous and the effect was only increased by his new beard—it made him look older and somehow grimmer. "You seem to think you'll be coming along."

"It's not as if you can find the tunnels on your own," Edmund countered, though he knew full well that he was perfectly capable of drawing his brother a map. Luckily Peter did not seem to consider this possibility, though he still did not appear pleased at the prospect of Edmund accompanying him anywhere, probably least of all the to the house of the Tarkaan responsible for his disappearance.

"Fine," he agreed, with rather more grace than Edmund had expected. "But not tonight—if you don't sleep first Menwy is likely to have both our heads."

Suddenly feeling too tired to argue Edmund nodded and leaned his head back against the wall. "Or worse she would tell Orieus."

Peter laughed and ruffled his hair, an action which Edmund told himself he only allowed because he was tired. Peter seemed to take this as an invitation and hugged him cautiously, nearly falling off his chair in the process.

"I'm not dying you know," Edmund complained, though he didn't try to pull away. Whether he wanted to admit it or not he found that he was immensely grateful for his brother's presence.

"No," Peter said quietly releasing him, though he kept one hand on his shoulder. "And thank Aslan for that."

Edmund was almost certain that he saw the telltale sparkle of tears in his older brother's eyes but chose not to comment on it, and a moment later Peter blinked, and they were gone. "Get some sleep," he ordered, voice only slightly unsteady, as he settled back into the chair.

Edmund would have protested that his brother was being an idiot and there was no reason for him to stay, but he was asleep before he could do more than frown.

 **Short, probably rushed, and definitely not what I want to post after a month's absence, but hopefully you all still enjoyed it. Peter's chapter is up next, and will be much longer and contain even more possibly confusing details that are incredibly important!**

 **Let me know in a review what you thought and thank you so much for reading!**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	20. Son of Obresh

**Hello to all my lovely readers! So glad you are still with me!**

 **Guest: Thanks! I try my best :-)**

 **Aslan's Daughter: I definitely see what you mean!**

 **Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter. I am putting my usual request for reviews up here, because by the end of the chapter you probably won't want to read an author's note...it's a long one and probably (hopefully) a bit stressful. Leave me a review if yo can please! Thanks for reading!**

 _22nd. of Greenroof, 1012_ — _Second-day_

Peter was just drifting into an uneasy doze, finally having given up on finding a comfortable position on the creaking wooden chair and resigning himself instead to having a very stiff neck, when a commotion from the front room of the inn brought him suddenly back to full awareness. Edmund was still asleep and looked surprisingly peaceful, utterly undisturbed by the racket in the other room, and Peter frowned slightly. Edmund was usually a light sleeper and the series of crashes and voices shouting Calormene curses were certainly loud enough that they should have woken him.  
Still, the more pressing concern seemed to be the commotion itself and Peter hauled himself out of the chair with a groan of annoyance. Another crash came from the front room, this one accompanied by more indistinguishable shouting, curses that sounded like they had come from the innkeeper, and a familiar sounding shriek of alarm.

"What now?" he muttered crossly, reaching for Rhindon, which he had leaned against the bedframe. Casting a last, concerned look over his shoulder at his still sleeping brother, Peter cautiously pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway beyond. It was dim, the only illumination coming from one smoking, foul smelling clay lamp that did little to dispel the shadows in the few doorways that led into other rooms—all of which were empty as far as Peter had been able to determine.

The lamp smoke made his eyes sting and his lungs burn and he paused, coughing into the crook of his arm, only for Brickle, who was sprinting up the hallway from the other direction, to collide with him.

Reeling from the unexpected impact Peter stumbled back against the wall, still coughing, and put a hand on the Dwarf's shoulder, trying to steady him. Brickle dug in his heels and twisted away, his expression panicked before he recognised Peter. He seemed to calm slightly, obviously whatever had sent him into a panic in the first place was serious enough for him to be currently unconcerned by the fact that he had almost knocked his king down in his haste, and Peter felt a sinking sense of dread.

"What is it, Brickle?" he demanded sharply, still half choking on the foul lamp smoke.

Brickle peered up at him through the gloom, eyes wide with still barely controlled panic. "They're at the door! Please, your majesty, they mean to kill us!" He raised a grubby hand to his beard, tugging frantically at the ragged strands of red hair and Peter grabbed his wrist quickly before he could do any further damage to the bedraggled mass of hair.

"Who is at the door?" He resisted the urge to shake Brickle when the fellow simply stared up at him shaking his head frantically. Something had obviously frightened him badly, and Peter doubted that a mere squadron of the Calormene Guard could have done so. The Guard was frightening, not panic inducing. "Brickle, take a breath," he ordered as patiently as he was able. "There, that's better. Now tell me, who is at the door?"

Brickle took a gasping, ragged breath, still shaking his head, but seemed to collect himself somewhat. "T-the priests," he managed at last, tugging at his beard with his free hand. Peter gave up trying to stop him and released his other wrist with a sigh.

"What priests?" he was nearly certain he knew already, and the question came more from an empty hope for contradiction rather than a need for confirmation. He had heard stories of terrifying Calormene priests, but had not given them much credit as truth—many of them were too gruesome and disturbing to be taken as anything other than the ravings of mad men.

"His priests! Tash's priests," Brickle shuddered. "I was in the street and I saw them coming—faces like skulls, eyes like fire, and the smell of death." He shuddered again, both hands twisting frantically at his tangled beard. "They'll kill us all and take our souls!"

Peter did shake him then, not roughly, but insistently. "Where is Menwy?"

"G-guarding the door," Brickle stammered. "We braced it with the tables and chairs, but they have soldiers with them, and torches."

Peter nodded, thinking frantically. "Go back to Menwy, tell her to go—both of you, get out of here. Go to the tombs, I'll meet you there when I can. Go out the back, try not to be seen, but go quickly."

Brickle nodded and dashed back towards the main room where the crashing was now accompanied by the sounds of splintering wood as the soldiers began to break through the door. They had a minute at most before the Guard broke through—the fact that they had not yet set fire to the inn indicated that they had orders to take him and Edmund alive at least, but he hardly trusted the Priests to keep them alive for long once captured.

He hurried back to the room and found Edmund still asleep, apparently oblivious to both noise and danger. Bolting the door hurriedly behind him he hurried to the window and wrenched the sagging shutters open. The window had no glass and much to his relief there were no bars, but beyond the ragged hedge of shrubbery below the window he could clearly see two white turbans with the spikes of helmets protruding from the tops of them.

Edmund could probably make it past the guards to the street without being seen if he wanted to, and was awake enough to understand the necessity, but Peter doubted that he could. He cautiously stuck his head out of the window and turned slightly, peering up at the second story of the inn above him. A drain pipe ran from the decrepit gutter, down along the side of the building, and passed the window only a few feet to the left. If they could climb up it, then it would be a simple matter to scramble up to the roof where they could hopefully find a way down to the street that was not guarded—or wait for the guards to leave as long as the didn't set fire to the inn first.

Of course, it only worked if Edmund was awake. Peter was rather dubious concerning his own ability to make it up the drain pipe under the best of circumstances and knew he certainly couldn't do it while carrying his brother.

More crashing signaled that he was running out of time, and he pulled his head back in through the window and turned back to Edmund. Shaking him urgently, he was rewarded with a thoroughly cross groan and a halfhearted attempt to push him away.

"Ed!" He shook him again and this time Edmund opened his eyes halfway, and glared up at him, obviously feeling enough like himself to add a muttered curse for good measure. "Wake up," Peter ordered sharply, too familiar with his brother's foul moods upon being woken to be deterred.

"G' away," Edmund grumbled, attempting to burrow under the blankets.

Peter shook him again, frustration growing as he heard more shouting, the sound growing louder as the door began to break. "Edmund! If you don't wake up right now we'll both be killed!"

That seemed to get Edmund's attention and he sat up so quickly that his head almost collided with Peter's. "What?"

"No time," Peter warned, lowering his voice. "There's a drain pipe outside the window, we need to get to the roof." He didn't bother asking if Edmund was well enough to climb. If he wasn't then they were dead anyway. Edmund nodded and got to his feet, stumbling only slightly as he took a moment to find his balance.

Peter spared a moment to glance hastily around the room, pausing long enough to collect his cloak from the back of the chair, and then hurried back to the window. Edmund was already sitting on the sill, leaning out backwards as he reached for the drain pipe. Peter sent a silent prayer to Aslan that the guards in the street below did not choose that moment to turn and look up. Only a few paces and a raggedly trimmed charcoal tree separated them from the side of the inn and the window through which Edmund had now disappeared.

Peter heard the main door give way with a crash and hastily stuck his own head through the window, stifling a grunt of annoyance as his shoulders scraped against the narrow frame. After a fair bit of wriggling, and far more noise than he would have liked, he succeeded in squeezing the rest of the way through the window and grabbing hold of the drain pipe.

Edmund was nearly to the top of it, resting one foot on the edge of the second story window sill, by the time Peter managed to get a solid grip on the pipe and begin the climb. He felt the metal shift and risked glancing up to see that the already derelict gutter and its fastenings were shifting alarmingly under the strain of his and Edmund's combined weight. Edmund was looking up too, and a moment later he was climbing again, releasing the drain pipe as soon he was close enough to the roof to grab the edge of the gutter instead.

Peter made it to the second story window just as he heard a general outcry from the back of the inn, followed by the sound of galloping hooves and furious shouts. He sincerely hoped that Menwy and Brickle had made good on their escape and, judging by the outrage in the soldiers' shouts, they most likely had.

Looking up again, he saw that Edmund had pulled himself up onto the flat roof and was peering anxiously over the edge. Cursing silently Peter left the brief respite of the second story sill and began climbing again, his boots slipping against the baked mud bricks as he tried to find a foothold on the wall. After another moment of clumsy scrambling he grasped the edge of the gutter and pulled himself up, onto the roof where he collapsed gratefully on the sun warmed tiles.

Edmund raised an eyebrow at him as he tried to get his breath back. "This is why I'm the spy," he announced quietly, looking like he was trying not to laugh.

Peter glared at him, though he knew it would be immediately obvious that there was no true annoyance behind the expression. "No, you're the spy because you're a sneak."

Edmund shrugged and peered back over the edge of the roof. Sighing, Peter joined him, laying flat on his stomach and hoping that none of the guards would notice that two Northerners were watching them like bizarre birds perched on the edge of the roof.

The street below was deserted, except for the two guards in front of the window they had climbed out of, and they appeared bored, leaning on their spears with their backs to the exit they were supposed to be guarding. Peter shook his head in amazement. Orieus would have been furious to see any of their own guards behaving in such a manner, but Peter could not help but be grateful for their carelessness. Escaping from a building guarded by a troupe of Narnians would have been nearly impossible.

Edmund nudged him in the ribs with his elbow and motioned towards the other edge of the roof, the one that overlooked the small courtyard and the front of the inn. Peter nodded agreement, and they cautiously began crawling across the roof—staying as low and as quiet as they could. Reaching the edge and peering over, Peter found the tiny weed choked courtyard in front of the inn crowded with horses and armoured soldiers carrying scimitars and round shields.

One of the soldiers was holding a robed and turbaned man with a long, dirty beard firmly by the arm and Peter recognised the innkeeper with a feeling of disgust. The man had obviously been the one to betray their presence to The Guard—though Peter suspected it had been the height of foolishness for him to do so. The man had accepted gold from a Northerner, had allowed him to remain under his roof, and it had only been after days had passed that he had gone to fetch the soldiers. From what he knew of Calormene law such actions were tantamount to treason.

A moment later he forgot about the innkeeper entirely when six tall men, wearing blood red robes and black turbans stepped out of the low doorway, flanked by eight soldiers who wore red tabards emblazoned with the twisting flame and vulture emblem of Tash's temple Guard.

He heard Edmund draw in his breath sharply and glanced over to find that his brother had gone pale and was staring at the men below in horror. "Lion's Mane," he breathed, still staring. "They're the bloody Priests!"

At any other time, Peter might have laughed at the phrasing, but as it was he remained silent and turned his attention back to the courtyard below. The Priests stood with their backs to the building and he could not see their faces but when he looked back towards the innkeeper he saw that the man had flung himself to the ground and seemed to be babbling incoherently. Looking at the rest of the men he saw that the soldiers too seemed uneasy, shifting and muttering as they made signs of protection.

When one of the red-robed figures turned back towards the inn a moment later Peter saw why and suddenly Brickle's panic seemed perfectly understandable. The Priest was very tall and carried a short, curved dagger in his right hand, but there was nothing particularly frightening about that—it was his face that made Peter shudder and look away quickly.

Beneath the black turban the Calormene's face appeared unnaturally pale, and it had taken Peter a moment to realise why. He had no face. Where his skin and features should have been there was only bleached white bone. His eyes were two sunken hollows that seemed filled with ruddy flame, and his mouth was a grotesque hole with only a few teeth still clinging to the bones of his jaws.

Peter shrank back from the edge, suddenly feeling as though surely those terrible flaming eyes could find him, regardless of where he was. He heard a half-stifled groan of pain next to him and found that Edmund too had drawn back from the edge and was pressing both hands to his head, his face twisted in a grimace of pain.  
Looking quickly back over the edge of the roof Peter saw that another of the Priests had turned to join his companion and both of them seemed to be looking in a vaguely upward direction, though it was difficult to tell without facial features to give the direction of their gaze away. He quickly retreated again, and found that Edmund's nose was bleeding again, though it didn't appear to be as bad as before and his expression was slightly less pained than it had been the night before under similar circumstances.

"What is it?" he whispered, keeping his voice low enough that it was more a silent forming of words than a whisper. Edmund shook his head, pressing a hand to his bleeding nose, and then nodded back towards the courtyard obviously intending Peter to take another look.

The Priests had turned away again, and the soldiers were sheathing their scimitars and grasping the bridles of their horses in preparation for departure. Peter scanned the cluster of men curiously, trying to catch sight of the innkeeper, and saw him still laying on his face in the dust with his hands over his head as if to ward off a blow.

One of the Priests was stooping over him and a moment later Peter saw the knife he carried flash in the sunlight and the innkeeper went limp, arms dropping from around his head as he died. Peter grimaced, feeling a rush of sympathy for the man, even if he had betrayed them. The innkeeper might have accepted the gold and held his tongue out of greed, but in the end he had been loyal to his country and paid for that loyalty with his life.

A moment later the soldiers and priests had mounted and were streaming back onto the street in a clatter of hooves and shouts, leaving the innkeeper's body sprawled where he had fallen. Peter was unsurprised to see that two soldiers remained, one stationed on either side of the front entrance leaning against their long spears and appearing bored.

Cursing under his breath, Peter crawled back from the edge and shook his head. "They left guards," he relayed quietly—keeping his voice low enough that he was certain it would not be heard on the street below.

Edmund snorted, which seemed rather dangerous considering his recent nosebleed. "Of course they did; they aren't complete idiots." Peter frowned at him and he shrugged. "What? We should give them some credit at least."

"If you say so." It wasn't worth arguing with his brother about. "What happened anyway, when the priest looked up?"

Edmund shrugged, not meeting Peter's eyes. "I don't know."

"Ed." Peter had always found it rather difficult to make a whisper sound sufficiently menacing, but either he had managed it at last or Edmund was simply too tired to employ his usual avoidance tactics because he sighed, his expression resigned, and peered over the edge of the roof to make sure the soldiers were still unaware of their presence before answering.

"I think I've seen them before, but I can't remember when. It's like—" he broke off and pressed his hands against his eyes.

"Ed?" Peter put a hand on his shoulder, concern returning as he recognised the gesture. "Maybe you shouldn't try to remember. Menwy said—"

"They were there before," Edmund interrupted, his voice strained. "Last time I think. They were there, chanting something about souls and brothers." More blood was dripping from his nose and his hands were pressed against his head with so much force that Peter could see his fingertips whitening. He didn't seem particularly aware of his brother's presence either, and his voice was growing dangerously loud.

"Edmund!" Peter shook his shoulder slightly, raising his own voice as much as he dared, hoping to shock Edmund out of whatever confused state he was falling into.  
Edmund stared at him, eyes glazed as if he were looking through him, and shook his head. "No."

"What? Ed, can you hear me?" _Do you know who I am?_ He added silently, dreading the answer too much to risk asking.

"Soul to soul, blood to blood. What Tash has claimed none can take, until the debt is paid." The words were unfamiliar, but sounded like part an invocation. Or an enchantment, Peter thought darkly. The accent they were spoken in was strange too—musical and lilting like something he would have expected to hear from a Tarkaan or other high borne Calormene.

"Edmund!" Peter shook his shoulder again, more urgently, and risked a glance back over the edge of the roof. The guards were still in the street below talking and laughing quietly as they passed a wineskin between them. If they had been even slightly more competent Peter was certain they would have heard Edmund's strange, half-chanted statement.

Peter turned back to him and shook him again. "Snap out of it!"

Edmund blinked and frowned at him. "What?" He frowned and dropped his hands away from his eyes to his nose. "Not again!" he grumbled, examining his bloody fingers with annoyance.

Peter hastily tore a strip of fabric from his cloak and passed it to him. "Keep your voice down," he warned. "It's a wonder you haven't had the guards up here already."

Edmund nodded and lowered his voice. "What happened?"

Peter stared at him, he wasn't really surprised, but he had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that Edmund would at least remember what he had said. "I'm not sure," he said at last. "But I think we need to find Peridan and leave—the sooner the better."

Edmund nodded, though he was frowning. "I saw Menwy, and you said Brickle is with you. They weren't in the inn when the soldiers came, were they?"

"No, they're waiting outside the city." I hope. He was fairly confident that Menwy could outrun even the Tisroc's prized racing horses (who were likely to outlive the Tisroc) but outrunning was one thing and escaping notice and staying hidden was another matter entirely.

Edmund nodded, likely thinking the same thing if his worried frown was any indication. "We'll need Brickle. He's seen a map of the tunnels and he can guide you if—" he broke off and shrugged. "Just in case."

It wasn't a particularly comforting thought—stumbling through Calormene sewer tunnels with a nervous dwarf as a guide—but he supposed it would be better than wandering lost through the tunnels with Edmund mumbling incomprehensible Calormene phrases, utterly unable to guide him.

"I would suggest we wait for dark," Edmund continued, frowning up at the sun which was nearing its zenith, "But I am reasonably certain we'll bake if we stay up here for much longer."

He was right. Peter could already feel the skin on the back of his neck starting to blister and sweat kept dripping into his eyes and prickled uncomfortably in his beard. The heat seemed to have returned with a vengeance and there was no sign of clouds promising rain and cooler temperatures.

"We should be able to get back down the way we got up, if those guards have gone." He shuffled awkwardly back to the edge of the roof where the pipe led back down to the street and peered over the edge.

The street was nearly deserted, and Peter suspected that most of the Calormene people had retreated indoors out of the sun. A few ragged children were playing in the dust on the other side of the street and a blind beggar was sitting cross-legged in the sparse shade of the charcoal trees with a dented metal bowl in front of him. There was no sign of the two guards who had been stationed there before.

"Can you make it back down?" Peter asked, glancing over at Edmund who had joined him and was studying the street with a rather dubious expression.

Edmund responded by elbowing him sharply in the ribs and rolling his eyes. "Can you?" he retorted. "I seem to recall you were the one having trouble on the way up. Anyway, it's no use you going down there looking like that."

"Like what?" Peter didn't see anything particularly wrong with his appearance. Edmund, on the other hand, looked thoroughly disreputable considering that he was still barefoot and wearing a set of Peter's spare clothes which were rather too large for him.

Edmund snorted. "Look around, do you see many Northerners? Much less ones with swords and fine boots."

"I'm not leaving Rhindon behind," Peter growled back, putting a protective hand on the sword's hilt and glaring back at his brother.

Edmund rolled his eyes and held up Peter's cloak, which he had left lying on roof tiles. "Of course not, but you can't carry it openly either. Better take off the boots too."

Peter scowled at the prospect of wandering through the filthy streets barefoot, but he had to admit that Edmund was right. He pulled off his boots and passed them to Edmund along with his sword belt. Edmund wrinkled his nose and hastily folded the boots and sword into a makeshift bundle he had made from Peter's cloak.

"How do you plan on getting that down to the street?" Peter asked, eyeing the bundle dubiously. Dropping it would most likely make enough noise that even the most inept guards would notice, not to mention the risk of the beggar or the children stealing it before either of them could reach the street.

"You go down first and I'll throw it down to you?" Edmund suggested, sounding rather too cheerful at the prospect of tossing things at his brother from a safe distance. Peter scowled, but he didn't have a better idea. He wasn't particularly looking forward to the prospect of climbing back down the drain pipe either.

The descent went about as well as could be expected and Peter was unsurprised to find himself sprawled in an undignified heap among the crushed remnants of a half-dead shrub when he reached the bottom. He scrambled to his feet, cursing under his breath when he stepped on a sharp rock, and peered back up at the roof to find Edmund peering over the edge, very obviously laughing at him.

He glared back, the glanced around quickly, hoping that no one had taken much note of his less than graceful arrival on the ground. The blind beggar was still sitting in the dust directly beside the street and seemed uninterested in anything except his begging bowl, but the children were staring at him with wide eyes, whatever game they had been playing forgotten. A moment later they scattered, running pell mell in different directions, doubtless to report Northerners dropping from the sky to their parents—who would more than likely report it to The Guard.

Peter scowled after the children for just a moment longer than he should have and was taken by surprise when the bundle Edmund had made of his sword and boots dropped from the roof. The bundle hit him squarely in the chest and for the second time in as many minutes Peter found himself sprawling clumsily in the dust and broken shrubbery. Edmund followed the parcel, hald climbing, half sliding down the drainpipe with far more grace than Peter had managed and leaned against the wall of the inn, still laughing quietly as he watched his brother pick himself up and brush dead leaves and twigs from his hair.

"We should go," Peter said, feeling distinctly cross. He squinted up at the sun, then scanned the surrounding street. "The gate isn't far and the others should be waiting at the tombs."

Edmund nodded, still looking amused, and stepped around the charcoal tree into the street. The beggar raised his head hopefully at the sound and held out his bowl, the few coins in the bottom of it rattling. Peter looked back regretfully as they continued down the street.

"I wish we could have helped him," he said quietly, all too aware that a single gold piece would probably have bought the man food and lodging for a week as long as he wasn't particular about where he stayed.

Edmund shrugged and kept walking, head down as he scuffed his bare feet through the dust. "It's probably best we didn't, unless you have Calormene money—Narnian gold would only get him killed."

"The innkeeper didn't hesitate to accept it. Neither did that Lemesh fellow." Peter scowled, remembering how Lemesh had tried to knife him. He wasn't about to tell Edmund that particular bit of information though, especially considering that he had almost returned the favour and Brickle was the only reason the Calormene spy was still alive.

Edmund scoffed and shook his head. "I'm guessing the innkeeper is the man they killed back there?" When Peter nodded Edmund sighed and shook his head again. "And I don't suppose you stopped to wonder how they found him?"  
Peter shrugged. "I suppose I thought he chose loyalty over greed and went to fetch the soldiers."

Edmund was quiet for a long moment as they hurried past a group of merchants arguing near an open stall that appeared to be selling jars of insects. The street was growing more crowded as they neared the gates, but so far no one seemed to be taking notice of the two dusty, barefoot, and slightly ragged Northerners. Peter could guess why, but chose not to dwell on the thought too long. The only Northerners here were slaves.

Once they were past the small group of people Edmund continued as if there had been no interruption. "Narnian gold is as good as a death sentence here—at least in this part of the city. Someone must have seen the innkeeper with it and reported him to The Guard, which led them straight to us."

"So Lemesh is likely to be found out to?" Peter couldn't quite regret that, although he supposed he should be more sorry than he was. After all, Edmund seemed to find the fellow useful.

Edmund snorted. "Lemesh is, among other things, a very good forger. Whatever gold you gave him is probably already being melted into Calormene coins that he can spend without fear of finding his throat slit."

"What about the Priests? I can't imagine them turning up everytime someone is found with Narnian coins." The memory of the Priest's bare skull and dead, fire-filled eyes made him look quickly over his shoulder, suddenly feeling an irrational fear that they were being followed. From the corner of his eye he saw Edmund shrug.

"That's the bit I can't quite make out," he admitted, scuffing his bare feet against the paving stones as he walked. "I know I've seen them before, although I still don't remember where or when, so maybe they were there because of me."

Peter had already reached a similar conclusion but he had been hoping to have his theory refuted, rather than confirmed.

The street was growing crowded again and this time the group of merchants was larger, though these ones seemed to be drinking, rather than arguing. "Keep your head down," Edmund warned quietly, as they slipped past the merchants and on into a sort of courtyard that seemed to serve as an open air market.

Peter frowned but did as he was told, as they pushed their way as unobtrusively as possible through the groups of merchants, beggars, and women going about the business of shopping for the next day.

The air was hot and oppressive in amongst the people and the combined smell of spices, cooking food, and the unwashed bodies of the beggars sitting in the dust made Peter want to gag. When he glanced over at Edmund he saw that his brother did not seem remotely bothered by press of people and smells. He looked almost as if he belonged there as he slipped, nearly unnoticed, through knots of people with his head down and shoulders slumped. He looked dejected and broken spirited, as if he really had spent years as a Calormene slave and Peter shivered slightly despite the heat. It was not a pleasant thought and for a moment he wished Edmund wasn't quite so good at losing himself in the role he was currently playing.

After a few more long tense moments, in which Peter found himself shoved, nearly knocked over, and cuffed sharply on the head when he had the misfortune to collide with a wealthy looking merchant, they were through the worst of the crowd and were hurrying down a wider, better maintained thoroughfare.

Peter breathed a sigh of relief to at least be able to breathe freely again. His feet hurt from walking barefoot over the rough paving stones and his head ached from the relentless glare of the sun. Still it was a relief to look ahead and see the looming city gates, even if they were guarded by a group of at least ten soldiers, all with long spears and small, round shields.

Edmund nudged Peter sharply in the ribs with his elbow. "Lion's Mane Pete, try to look a little less arrogant."

Peter scowled at him, but tried to slump his shoulders a bit more. _I'm not sure how anyone could look arrogant stumbling around barefoot in the slums of Tashbaan,_ he thought crossly, but wisely chose not to say anything aloud.

The gates grew tantalisingly closer as they hurried on, nearly invisible in the stream of other people leaving the city in groups and pairs, donkey carts and packs rattling after them. Most of the farmers from the surrounding countryside who had come into the city for the day seemed to returning home and much to Peter's surprise—and relief—they were through the gates before anyone seemed to take notice of them.

They had only gone a few more yards down the wide, paved road that led down from the city before Edmund turned aside sharply and hurried through a grove of orange trees and down a slight embankment that hid the road from view once they were at the bottom of it. A few paces farther on the short grass gave way to small, sharp rocks, and then to sand. The tombs loomed before them now, dark and forbidding against the sky and a shadow swooped out from among them and landed heavily on Peter's shoulder.

"Well met, your majesty," Sallowpad the Raven croaked, his voice deafeningly close to Peter's ear as he settled his feathers into place. "And you," he added, and Peter felt him shift to tilt his head in Edmund's direction. Edmund appeared infuriatingly unsurprised at the Raven's sudden appearance and merely nodded to him.

Peter sincerely wished the Bird had decided to land on his brother's shoulder rather than his, since it had been something of a shock to find that he was suddenly being used as a perch by a Raven who he had assumed would have returned to Cair Paravel days before, but Sallowpad had never been particularly concerned with the assumptions of others.

"What news, good cousin?" Edmund asked, frowning slightly as Sallowpad continued staring at him with one, beady eye. Peter felt the Raven's talons tighten on his shoulder and heard the uneasy ruffle of feathers next to his ear.

"What news?" the Bird croaked back. "I have news of interest to the High King. For you, Son of Obresh, I have no news."

"What did you call him?" Peter turned his head sharply to glare at Sallowpad, but the Raven was still watching Edmund and his talons were digging painfully into Peter's shoulder. Peter had never known a Raven to be frightened before, but somehow he was quite certain that Sallowpad was.

"Son of Obresh," Edmund repeated, and there was something in his voice that made Peter turn back to him with a feeling of inescapable dread.

Edmund was not looking at him, or at Sallowpad, he was looking down at his hands. He was still holding the bundle made of Peter's cloak in his right hand but the knot he had tied it together with had come undone and he was holding Rhindon, unsheathed, in his left hand. There was something about the scene that seemed terribly wrong to Peter, but for a moment he could not decide what it was. Then Edmund looked up, eyes wide and frightened and face suddenly drained of all colour—Peter could see a thin stream of blood starting to run from his nose.

He dropped the bundle and held up Rhindon, staring at the blade, at his hand wrapped around the hilt of it, with a look of absolute confusion and terror, and at last Peter understood what had seemed so wrong. He stared at him, slowly beginning to realise, but reluctant to believe.

 _Son of Obresh._ The blank, unrecognising look Edmund had given him at the inn, the way his voice had changed on the rooftop when he had spoken words that were not his own.

" _Soul to soul, blood to blood. What Tash has claimed none can take, until the debt is paid."_

 _No. It isn't possible_ — _it's just Edmund. I'm wrong, please, Aslan, tell me I'm wrong._

"Ed?" He took a cautious step forward and Sallowpad croaked loudly in his ear, as if in warning.

"Peter," Edmund's voice was shaking and so was the sword still gripped in his hand—the wrong hand. "I'm not left-handed." Then his knees buckled and before Peter could react he had crumpled to the ground, Rhindon falling to the sand beside him.

 **I'll just leave this here...review if you want to know what is going on and what happens next! I'm joking, I'll of course post, even if you don't review.**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	21. Thy Will

**It's been awhile...Sorry!**

 **Aslan's Daughter: That about sums it up...the plot will eventually become clear :-). Always glad to hear from you!**

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 _14_ _th_ _. of Greenroof, 1012—Firstday_

Susan stared at the Faun for a long moment as he swayed in front of her, eyes wide with terror, and briefly considered the benefits of launching herself out of the window. Of course, she did no such thing—these were Peter's rooms, not her own and a fall to the paving stones below the window would not prove overall helpful in escaping whatever new crisis loomed, but was very likely to be deadly to her, and perhaps one or more of the Narnians still gathered in the courtyard below.

She took a breath, forced her gaze away from the window and slowly let the breath back out. "Tiberius, please, try to be calm and tell me, if you can, what has happened?"

The Tiberius' chin was trembling, close to tears, and he was alternating between ringing his hands and scrubbing ineffectually at the stain on his tunic. "Oh please, your majesty! Won't you come at once! It's simply dreadful, and she's just lying there! It isn't right! It isn't right!" His voice rose to a wail that Susan was certain would have been heard halfway to Tashbaan and he burst into tears at last.

Taking his arm, she steered him towards a chair as calmly as she could manage and settled the sobbing Faun into it before she allowed herself to feel her own concern and trepidation. Someone had been killed, presumably murdered, that was obvious from Tiberius' distressed announcement. _But who?_

She doubted Tiberius would be so distraught if it happened to be the Tarkheena Mazareen and stubbornly did not allow herself to feel disappointed about that particular lady's likely survival. That left any number of servants, courtiers, friends, and visitors to Cair Paravel. _Half the kingdom is here! It could be anyone!_

She hurriedly poured water from a pitcher on Peter's desk into a moderately clean goblet she found tipped on it's side among a jumble of papers she had yet to sort through, and set about trying to convince her distraught companion to drink it without choking and to calm enough to tell her precisely what he meant by murder and where she was supposed to go to face the matter.

Tiberius was still sobbing noisily into her handkerchief when the sound of hooves in the corridor alerted her to the presence of a Centaur. A moment later Orieus stood framed in the doorway, his face set in a very grim expression and an enormous longsword unsheathed in his right hand. The blade, she saw with some relief, did not appear to be bloody.

"General?" she abandoned the still sobbing Tiberius to his grief with a last pat on the shoulder and sympathetic look and crossed the room to Orieus' side. His expression was even more concerning up close and she suppressed a shudder at the mix of fury and grief in the set of his jaw and the white-knuckled grip he kept on the hilt of his sword.

He inclined his head slightly, then frowned past her at the distraught Faun. "He's told you then, Queen Susan?" he asked quietly, sheathing the sword once he seemed to have satisfied himself that she was alone except for Tiberius.

"Tiberius has told me someone's been killed, but not who or how. General, please tell me what has happened." His expression was not remotely reassuring, nor was the look of sorrow he directed at her when it became clear she knew very little of the matter. Susan clenched her fists, feeling her fingernails dig painfully into the skin of her palms, and struggled for composure. _No more loss, Aslan, I beg you. No more friends to bury. I cannot bear it!_ But she knew that she must bear it, no matter how staggering the weight, and closed her eyes briefly, forcing herself to take another deep.

 _Give me strength,_ she begged silently. _Aslan help me._ Susan had always rather envied Lucy her close connection with Aslan, had longed for the same assurance of His presence that her younger sister always seemed to have, but in that moment, she was nearly certain that she felt the warmth of breath against her cheek and the warmth of soft fur pressing against her side.

 _Stand strong, Eve's Daughter,_ a voice whispered in her ear, accompanied with a feeling of love and safety. She remembered nights sitting before the fire with her knitting while Lucy played with a litter of kittens on the hearth, Peter and Edmund laughing as they ran across the muddy training field—eager to escape her wrath when a pair of over enthusiastic Dogs had knocked her over and covered her in mud, and the barely remembered feeling of racing across plains, over streams, and through forests on Aslan's back with Lucy so many years before.

 _Stand strong,_ Aslan's voice said again, gentle and strong. _I am with you._

The voice faded to echoing silence at the end, but the warmth at her side remained and she felt herself stand taller, shoulders squaring and hands unclenching. She blinked and faced Orieus with more assurance than she had believed possible mere seconds before.

"Please, General, I see from your face that the news is dreadful, so it benefits nothing to spare me longer. Tell me what it is, if you please."

Orieus inclined his head again and stepped aside from the door. "It may be better to show you, Queen Susan, if you will permit it."

Susan nodded, feeling her throat constrict again and stepped past him into the dim corridor. The warmth of Aslan's presence stayed with her, an invisible support at her side as she walked, and she leaned into the feeling as she walked, silently preparing herself for whatever had so distressed Tiberius and shaken the inscrutable calm of her General enough that he found words insufficient to convey the situation.

Once they turned down the broader corridor that led towards the library the shadows seemed to gather closer around them and Susan found herself ever more grateful that she was not alone. The torches had burned out, or more likely been extinguished considering that they must have been lit for scarcely more than an hour, and the corridor loomed before her, strange and cavernous in the dim light.

Ahead of them, just in front of the libraries huge, iron-bound doors knelt the figure of a man, kneeling next to a pale shape sprawled on the marble floor. Susan recognised the man almost immediately, both from the set of his shoulders and the pale gleam of his white turban in the gloom. It was Tarkaan Areesh, and for a moment she wanted nothing more than to curse and kick at the nearest wall. If the Tarkaan was present that made the identity of the dead woman nearly certain—regardless of Tiberius' reaction.

 _And if a Calormene guest has been killed beneath our roof then there may be nothing we can do to prevent war._ She drew in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, feeling the unseen warmth at her side press against her, urging her forward. Orieus stood to one side, his expression grave as he inclined his head towards the kneeling man, silently indicating that Susan should approach. It was only then that she noticed Trebonius standing in the shadowed arch of the library door, with Sundance—the badger librarian standing next to him—both Narnians looked grim and Trebonius held his ax in his hands, as if ready to do battle with some unseen attacker.

"Tarkaan Areesh?" Susan stepped forward cautiously, not particularly wanting to intrude on the man's grief, however unpleasant she had found both him and his sister, and then felt her heart seem to miss a beat.

 _This isn't right._ The figure sprawled before the Tarkaan was not wearing the bright, gaudy colours the Tarkheena had mere hours before. This woman was wearing a gown of light green and her straight, pale hair—quite unlike the Tarkheena's dark curls—spread around her like a strange cloak. _This isn't right,_ Susan thought again, feeling somewhat stupid as she stared at the impossible scene before her.

It was Jala, but it couldn't be. She had seen the Dryad only a few minutes ago, surely it had not been that long since she had sent her to find Lord Gale, and for her to be here, lying in the corridor with the Calormene Tarkaan kneeling over her seemed utterly impossible.

Before she had more than a moment to take in the scene before her however, Tarkaan Areesh had lept to his feet—rather to the alarm of Trebonius—and then thrown himself back to the ground at Susan's feet to grasp the hem of her gown in one hand. Orieus stamped his hoof, the sound ringing like a hammer against the stone corridor, and Susan heard the rasp of his sword being loosened in its sheath. Half in a daze she held up her hand to stop him, effectively forestalling any impending violence, and stared down at the man before her.

To all appearances the Tarkaan was utterly distraught. He had thrown himself flat on the floor, forehead pressed to the stone floor, and the only acknowledgement he seemed to make of Susan's presence was the hand that still gripped the hem of her skirt. He might have looked utterly ridiculous, had it not been for the other body lying even stiller not two paces away, and his behaviour was certainly not anything that a Narnian would have considered proper.

 _But he is not a Narnian,_ she reminded herself, vaguely recalling Edmund saying something about Calormenes making rather grand shows of grief—or perhaps in this case, remorse. There was only one reason Susan could see for Tarkaan Areesh being found kneeling over the body of a dead Narnian— _of a friend,_ she thought miserably—and it was one, the complications of which, she found rather staggering to contemplate.

She tugged her hem free from the Tarkaan's grasp—which seemed to send him into a paroxysm of weeping—and drew in her breath slowly. _Be calm. Don't let him see the anger, the pain, the loss; any of it. Now is not the time._ She did her best to ignore the quiet, niggling voice in her mind that seemed to endlessly repeat _"When? When is the time Susan? When everyone you care for is dead and buried? Will you then have time for tears?"_ and settled her face into as mild of an expression as she could muster.

"Tarkaan, what mean you by such a display?" she demanded, hardly recognising the cold, distant voice as her own. "I command you, stand on your feet and address me."

The Tarkaan raised his head marginally and Susan tried to give him an at least marginally reassuring smile. "O most beauteous and gracious Queen, I would beg your leave to remain as I am, for though I am innocent of this poor creature's death the poets have long since said that the vengeance of a monarch must be swift on any suspected of foul deeds." With that he dropped his head back down with an audible thump.

Susan stared at him, fury at him calling her friend a creature warring with a strange feeling of pity that someone who claimed innocence of wrongdoing knew nothing of mercy and did not even dare to stand and offer a defence. Rather to her surprise the pity won, and she turned to Orieus with what she was certain was a rather helpless expression.

"Were there witnesses, General?" she asked, though the grim set of his mouth made the question rather unnecessary.

"There is a witness, Queen Susan. Badger Sundance! Come forward." Orieus stamped one hoof against the stone floor in impatience as the librarian shambled forward, peering over the top of his spectacles with his habitual expression of ill-temper.

Susan suppressed a sigh. Sundance was a trial to deal with at the best of times, and under circumstances where he was certain to know his testimony was tantamount to either a pardon or a death sentence. _If only Edmund…_ she stopped herself before the thought could complete, but the damage was done, and she felt her eyes burn with threatening tears.

 _Trust me._ She could feel the voice to her very bones, strengthening, soothing, and filling her with a sense of peace she had felt only once before when she had seen Aslan standing atop the hill of the stone table, silhouetted in gold where He stood before the rising sun.

"Badger Sundance, of your courtesy?" Susan drew herself up to her full height, shoulders squared, and hands clasped before her, and regarded the Badger before her. He did not appear particularly courteous, nor did he seem very impressed by her regal manner, but she did not need him to be either courteous or impressed—only truthful.

The Badger sidled closer and tilted his pointed muzzle upwards to look at her. "I heard a terrible row," he announced without preamble, and Susan heard Orieus stamp his hoof again, likely in response to the librarian's manner. She held up a hand to him, signaling silence, though she did not look away from Sundance.

He peered up at her, obviously pleased by her attention being focused solely on him, and puffed out his chest. "I heard some foreigner," here he paused with a derisive sniff and glared murderously at the still prone Tarkaan before continuing. "He was cursing something terrible at that Dryad. I never liked her," he sniffed again and turned his squinting gaze towards Jala, where she lay on the marble floor. "Too flighty, all Dryads are like that. No sense of propriety either—too much like humans."

"ENOUGH!" The shout was loud enough that it seemed to shake the stone walls of the corridor. Orieus, it seemed had heard enough. He clattered forward, one hand clenching the hilt of his sword, and his face a perfect mask of fury. "You will show respect, Badger!"

Susan stepped back half a pace, staggered by his rage even though it was not directed at her. She could not remember ever seeing the stern, inscrutable general so obviously enraged, but she had heard Peter and Edmund relate tales of enemies who took one look at the Centaur charging at them and either threw down their weapons or ran in the opposite direction as quickly as they could (apparently it was not often quickly enough to outdistance a galloping Centaur). Seeing him now she could well believe the accounts, which had seemed rather far fetched before.

Sundance, who she had never seen intimidated by anything (despite the fact that he was shorter than almost everyone else in the castle, terribly shortsighted, and not particularly frightening even when considering his ill-temper), cowered away from Orieus and seemed to be trying to make himself as small as possible.

"Jala was a loyal subject, trusted friend and servant to Her Majesty, the Queen Susan, who—as you may be aware—is HUMAN. You are no friend of mine, nor of Queen Susan's, nor of anyone else. Loyal you may be, but a grudging and irascible servant you are certainly. Her majesty has asked you a question and you have responded with insolence—which I might have pardoned, had you not also insulted her." He stamped his front hooves, each blow ringing like the hammer fall of fate and Susan saw Sundance cower back even further until he was pressed against the wall of the narrow corridor with the still furious Centaur looming over him.

As tempting as it was to allow the General to continue berating the unfortunate badger Susan was all too aware that it would profit nothing in the end. Sundance might be cowed for minutes, perhaps even hours, but it was completely unlikely that his overall manner would change, or that he would be likely to offer any useful information.

"Peace, Orieus." She knew her voice did not hold the power of command that Peter's did, but Orieus stepped back immediately and inclined his head to her—although his tail was still flicking in irritation and he did not relax his grip on the sword hilt.

"Good cousin," she stepped around the still sniffling, facedown Tarkaan, and dropped to one knee in front of the Badger so that their eyes were level. "I know you to be honourable." _I know no such thing._ "And it would ill suit any Narnian to wish harm upon a visitor who is here by my leave. If you know anything, either of this man's guilt or innocence I would bid you tell me."

Sundance seemed to consider her for a moment, tilting his head to one side as he regarded her sharply over the top of his spectacles. Then he huffed and shook his head. "I heard the argument, and your loyal friend and servant there cry out, but it could hardly have been that sniveling imbecile who was shouting at her." He pointed his nose at the Tarkaan, lips drawn back in sort of snarl, though the effect was rather spoiled when his spectacles began to slid down his muzzle.

Susan nodded and stood. She had suspected as much. Tarkaan Areesh was bold in private, and when sure of himself, but when confronted he seemed to wilt. Jala would hardly have tolerated being shouted at without some retaliation. "Thank you, Sundance. You may go."

The Badger snorted and shuffled back towards the library doors muttering inaudibly (but not, Susan thought, in a complimentary way). Orieus glared after him, and Susan saw Trebonius' lips pull back in a much more convincing snarl than Sundance had managed as the Badger passed him.

"It was Duke Tirnan," Susan said quietly, tilting her head up to look at Orieus. "He came to see me in Peter's study and left in an ill-temper to return to Telmar. He must have met Jala in the hallway after she took my message to Lord Gale—" her voice broke, the words catching in her throat and threatening to choke her, but Orieus nodded, understanding and sorrow darkening his expression.

"His temper has become well known in his days here. I will send riders after him at once." Susan nodded her thanks, voice still trapped somewhere in her throat, and Orieus put a gentle hand on her shoulder—silently acknowledging and supporting.

She was infinitely grateful that he had expressed neither sentiment aloud—her control was wavering, so close to breaking that she feared at a single word of sympathy she would throw her arms around him and sob. While she was certain that Orieus would not begrudge her such a loss of composure it was hardly a spectacle she want the Tarkaan to witness, even if he was still stubbornly facedown in the middle of the hallway.

With an effort she turned back to him and forced herself to speak. "Tarkaan Obridesh, you are guiltless in the death of the Birch Dryad Jala, and as you are innocent of any crime I did you stand and return to your chambers." She did not pause to see if he would rise before she turned and nearly ran back up the corridor, only stopping long enough to call over her shoulder to Orieus. "Send for the Dryads, if you would, I—they will make the proper preparations."

Then she fled, too close to tears to feel ashamed. _It's too much! Lucy, Edmund, Peter, Jala: who else am I to lose? I want to trust, I'm trying, Aslan. I swear I'm trying._ She thought she felt the soft brush of fur against her arm as hurried blindly around a corner, but she could not be sure if it was Aslan or if she had just nearly collided with a guard or servant.

She was running now, her thin shoes slipping against the polished stones of the staircase that led to the ramparts. She slipped and fell heavily to her knees, bruising them against the stone and scraping her palms as she tried to catch herself, then she was on her feet and hurrying upwards again, not stopping until she had thrown open the ironbound door and stumbled out into the cool, night air.

It was silent and still, the banners hanging limp with no wind to catch them, and the colours of mourning were mercifully hidden by the darkness. She walked to the edge, wrapping her shawl back around her shoulders and looked out over the low stone battlements. Below there were still Narnians in the courtyard, candles still burned in the hands of a few, but they had fallen silent—their laments sung, and their tears shed.

 _They don't know. They don't know one of their own is dead—they don't know that a murderer rides through their land—and they cannot begin to guess that their High King may never return._ She felt the dampness of a tear on her cheek and brushed it away impatiently, but more were falling now, and it wasn't as if anyone was there to see.

She did not hear him approach, but when his hand dropped lightly onto her shoulder she was not alarmed. There was no danger in his presence when she became aware of it.

"Your grace?" Gale stepped forward to stand beside her, one hand still resting lightly on her shoulder s he offered her a handkerchief with the other. "I'm sorry, I did not think anyone else would be here so late."

Susan wiped her eyes and tried to smile at him, but knew the expression held little sincerity. "I come here to think."

"And to escape?" He wasn't looking at her, his eyes were focused on the distant horizon and perhaps that was what gave Susan the courage to speak.

"Yes, I suppose so. You should know, my lord, if you are to be king, that ruling is not an easy task." She folded the damp handkerchief into an untidy square, then shook it out again, smoothing the wrinkles from the linen before folding it again, more carefully.

He shrugged. "But it is worth it." It was not a question, but Susan nodded.

"I love my people, Lord Gale, I love this country, my family, my friends. Anything would be worth the pain if only they were safe." _Be safe,_ she added silently. _Come back to me. Peter. Edmund. Lucy. Oh Lucy, how can I bear this without your joy and light?_

"And when they are not safe it pains you." Again, it was not a question, but again she nodded. "I think I understand, in part at least," he continued quietly. "My father, he is not—" he paused, seemed to consider, and shook his head. "He is not a kind man, but I too love my country and my people. I am willing to play the pawn in my father's games of power if it will someday allow me to protect and serve those for whom I care." He turned to look at her then, and there was something steely and almost dangerous in his eyes. "But I am not a pawn, your grace—not my father's, and not yours."

Susan smiled, and handed him back his handkerchief. "I would not have believed you were, my lord."

Gale nodded, the fierce look in his eyes receding as he smiled, a touch sheepishly. "Forgive me, if I have offended you, I did not think ill of you, I only wished to be sure that we understand one another." He dropped his hand from her shoulder and rested his elbows atop the wall, leaning against it as he looked down into the courtyard.

"You will do what you must for those you have sworn your honour to," Susan said quietly, following his gaze. "I can find no offence in that."

He nodded, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, and pushed himself away from the wall to bow slightly. "I will leave you to your thoughts, your grace." He turned to go, and Susan put a had on his arm impulsively, rather shocked by her own presumption.

"My lord?"

He turned back, smiling slightly. "Your grace?"

"Thank you." And to her surprise she meant it. Somehow there was no shame to be felt at him finding her weeping—he had offered neither judgement nor empty reassurances and she was strangely comforted by his steady presence.

He bowed again, the smile widening and a glint of mischief flashing in his eyes. "If you need to borrow a handkerchief, Queen Susan, you need only ask." Then he was gone and the door settled shut behind him, leaving her alone again.

She went back to the edge of the rampart and tilted her head back until she found the bright, steady light of Alambil, high in the heavens. _Lady of Peace, watch over my sister, I beg you, and guide the spirit of my friend to Aslan's Country._

She lowered her eyes to where Tarva shone near the horizon and let out a slow, steadying breath. _Lord of Justice, guard my brothers in the shadow of Tash, bring them light I beg you._

 _Aslan,_ she bowed her head, fixing her gaze on the courtyard of Narnians below. _Lend me strength to watch over the land you have given me and to endure if I alone am to remain. Thy will be done, My King._

 **There's your update! I swear I'm trying to get the next one up sooner, since it is another chapter in the Tashbaan story arc. Thank you everyone for reading! I love reviews, so please leave me one :-).**

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 **A**


	22. The Vulture Strikes

**_Hello everyone! Here's the next chapter...hopefully you are still reading?_**

 _Lucy was flying, though she was not entirely sure of how—she had no wings, was not aware of consciously moving, and yet she_ was _moving, and swiftly. The wind rushed against her face, the land below spread like a fantastical, fast moving tapestry, low downs dotted with sheep and, to the left, cliffs that dropped sharply to the sea. She could hear the surf crashing against the rocks and the shrieking of gulls as they circled below her. Her eyesight was sharp, far sharper than she could remember it being before, and as she flew along she found her eyes drawn to a fast-moving shape below, traveling parallel to the edge of the rough cliff. Curiosity prickled through her, and she found herself suddenly swooping down, eyes straining to make out the details of what she now saw was a horse and rider._

 _The horse was a beautiful creature, with a dappled grey coat and a swift, smooth gait, but Lucy barely had time to think how lovely it was before her attention was fully captured by the rider. It was Edmund, or so she thought at first (though his hair was longer than she had ever seen it and would have fallen to his shoulders if it had not been blown back by the wind)._

But it can't be! _He was unarmed, alone, and Lucy was absolutely certain there were no cliffs like the one he was riding along in Narnia. She drew closer, somehow keeping pace with the galloping horse—though she still did not know how she was moving at all—and saw that it couldn't have been Edmund after all. He was very like her brother, but there was something different about his face. There was a lack of caution and a lightness in his expression that made Lucy quite certain he had never fought in a battle, never thrown himself between almost certain death and a loved one without a thought for his safety—never spoken the words which would condemn a guilty prisoner._

 _He was laughing, head thrown back and eyes closed as he slowed the horse from a gallop to a trot as they neared a rough patch of ground where the road ran perilously close to the cliff's edge for a few paces and then began descending steeply towards the sea below. The horse shied away from the drop with a nervous whinny and Lucy saw the man who was not quite Edmund smile and pat the beast's neck in reassurance._

 _Lucy shuddered—though she was still not aware of having a body—as the wind gusted suddenly, bringing with it an icy chill and a scent like carrion. The horse whinnied again, shrill and frightened, and stopped at the edge of the cliff where the road began descending. The rider tugged on the reins, leaning forward in the saddle to speak quietly in the horse's ear. A shadow fell across the road before them and Lucy felt a sick feeling of dread settle over her as she looked upward and saw a vulture, circling down in lazy, slowly shrinking circles._

 _The rider had seen it too and looked up sharply, his expression guarded now as he frowned._

"Son of Obresh." _The voice was terrible—the sound of fingernails scraping across slate, the echoing of dying screams, Lucy's own cry of terror as foaming jaws snapped together inches from Susan's ankle and her grip on the rough tree branch she clung to began to slip, a furious, grief stricken shout she recognised as Peter's, and further away in her memory, so faint it was almost an echo, a terrible cacophony of explosions, screams, and a roaring sound like the rushing of a great river._

 _If she had legs she would have run, if she had wings she would have flown as fast and as far as she could, but she found that she could not move—she seemed frozen in midair, hovering a few feet in front of the horse and rider as the vulture slowly circled again, his shadow nearly falling over the nose of the shying, terrified horse._

 _The rider gripped the reins with white knuckled fingers now, his face set in a grimace of concentration as he tried to keep his seat. "Begone, foul creature!" he called, and his voice was not Edmund's either—it was deeper, and he spoke in the musical, lilting accent of a high borne Calormene. "I do not fear you!" Lucy could not help but believe him. His face was pale and set, but in defiance, not in terror. "In the name of my mother's God I bid you leave me in peace, demon! In the name of A—"_

 _The horse screamed. The sound was so terrible, so filled with pure terror that it took Lucy a moment to realise that the shadow of the vulture's wing had passed over the creature's neck as the bird circled again. The rider's words were cut short by the sound, and by the horse suddenly bolting forward in blind terror. It veered wildly away from the cliff, turning so suddenly that the rider was thrown off balance and reeled in the saddle._

 _Then the vulture struck—swooping down as swiftly as an arrow from a bow to slash at the horse's flanks. The poor creature, maddened with terror and pain reared, throwing its rider. The fall would not have been too serious, the ground was not rocky, and the grass looked thick and springy, but they were still too near the cliff and the earth there was crumbling—worn by years of wind and rain. For a moment Lucy watched as the horseman with her brother's face lay, half stunned at the cliff's edge, and then—to her horror—she saw the ground begin to slide away beneath him._

 _The vulture loomed above him, his shadow impossibly large, and impossibly dark as it blotted out the sun, the sky—the whole world it seemed—and turned the air icy and thick with the smell of death._

"ASLAN!"

 _16_ _th_ _. of Greenroof, 1012—Third-day_

There were hands on her arms, shaking her, and Lucy lashed out blindly, fighting to free herself, still half caught in the grip of the dream which seemed to have inexplicably become a nightmare.

"Queen Lucy! Yer majesty!" The voice was rough, familiar, and concerned, and she blinked, the world slowly coming back into focus. At that particular moment the world seemed to consist of a lined, weathered face and grey-streaked red hair. Rhegus was bending over her, gripping her arms in an almost painful grip.

"Captain?" Her voice was hoarse, and she found that she was shaking badly, the chill of the icy, foul smelling wind seemed to have followed her to the waking world.

Rhegus released her and straightened, running a hand through his tousled hair. "Are ye well, Queen Lucy? Ye were shouting in your sleep an' I could no' wake ye."

Lucy sat up, feeling rather dizzy, and looked around, blinking and confused by the small ship's cabin she found herself in. _Of course! I'm on the pirate ship._ "I—" she coughed, her throat felt raw, and Rhegus immediately fumbled in one of the pockets of his coat and handed her a waterskin.

"'Ere, ye're alrigh', Queen Lucy? Take i' slow." His brow was furrowed, eyebrows drawn together into a single, worried line, and Lucy tried to smile shakily at him as she accepted the waterskin.

"I'm alright," she managed to say at last, though her hands were shaking badly. _It seemed so real._ "I—I think I must have had a nightmare."

Rhegus nodded gravely and leaned against the wall of the tiny cabin, bending his head slightly to keep from hitting it against the low ceiling. "Aye, I'd say ye were. Do ye—" Whatever he had been going to say was cut off by the small door of the cabin crashing open (and nearly crashing into him) to admit Merton. The Faun was red-faced and puffing, as if he had just run far further than across the deck and down the narrow steps in front of the cabin.

Completely ignoring Rhegus, despite the fact that he had almost bashed his head in with the door, he bowed hastily to Lucy and waved an urgent hand back towards the narrow stairs. "You'd better come quickly, your majesty. That pirate," here he did look at Rhegus, his expression disdainful. "Is refusing to go any further."

Lucy scrambled to her feet, which were still bare despite the fact that no less than five pirates had offered to give her their boots, and gathered up the cloak she had agreed to borrow from Balthasar's cabin boy. Rhegus sighed and ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head in resignation.

"I don' mean t' gloat, Queen Lucy, bu' I did warn ye," he said quietly as they followed Merton up the stairs and on to the gently rolling deck of the ship. "Balthasar only does wha' suits 'im, and if 'elping ye no longer suits 'im 'e's likely t' throw us all overboard."

Lucy groaned and rubbed a hand across her aching eyes. The terror of her dream was fading, but she was still badly shaken, and the prospect of being thrown overboard (again) was not a pleasant one. "But why would he change his mind now?" she asked, turning to look over her shoulder at Rhegus. "He was willing to help yesterday, and nothing's changed, has it?"

Rhegus shrugged noncommittally, sharp eyes scanning the deck for the pirate captain. "I gave up trying t' understand 'im years ago, your majesty. Ye migh' 'ave better luck askin' 'im yourself." He nodded his head towards the opposite side of the deck where Balthasar stood, shoulders hunched and contorted as he leaned against the railing.

Lucy took a deep breath and squared her shoulders as she hurried across the damp planking of the deck. The sun was not quite up yet, and she was grateful for the warmth of the cloak around her shoulders and almost wished she had accepted a pair of boots after all—the damp was making her feet very cold and by the time she reached the pirate's side she did not feel even remotely regal with her feet half numb and her hair still mussed from sleep.

Balthasar grunted in acknowledgement of her presence, raised an eyebrow at her disheveled appearance, and went back to studying the slowing brightening line that was the Eastern horizon. Lucy followed his gaze, expecting to see the faint outline of land in the distance, between them and the rising sun, or at the very least an uninterrupted line of gold where sky and sea met and the sun's rays set the water sparkling with dancing ripples of light.

She did see the faint outline of land, slightly closer than she had expected—close enough, in fact, that she could see the vague outline of a harbour with a city rising behind it—but it was not this that made her draw in her breath sharply, and lean over the railing, trying to see more clearly. There was something between them and the Doornish coast, a line of spindly shapes distributed at odd intervals before them—still a few leagues off but growing closer as the wind blew from the West and hastened the pirate ship forward.

 _They're ships!_ Lucy realised in wonder as her eyes slowly focused, adjusting to the glare of the sun on the water. Captain Balthasar seemed to be aware of the moment she came to this realisation and silently passed her his Captain's glass. Lucy peered through it, squinting against the brightness, and frowned.

They were light, single-masted sloops, which Lucy immediately thought was very strange, the Lone Islanders used heavier, two-masted brigantines for both trade and war, and if they were pirate ships then surely Balthasar would not be glaring at them as if their very existence was a personal afront to him.

She swept the glass up, and strained her eyes, trying to make out the insignia on the banners flying from the mast, but the glare of the sun was too bright as it rose fully above the horizon, nearly blinding her.

"Look a' t'e sails," Balthasar said shortly, still leaning over the railing with one hand raised to shield his eyes.

Lucy obliged, lowering the glass until it focused on the square trimmed sails of the lead ship. They were black, the absence of colour startling against the bright background of the sunrise, and it took her a only moment to see what Balthasar wanted her to take note of. The insignia of a red flame seemed to burn upwards from the lower left corner of the sail, spreading as it rose until it seemed to consume the black fabric with startling, blood red brightness.

 _Calormen._ Lucy shivered in spite of herself and handed the glass back to Balthasar. "Captain—"

"No." He held up a hand, cutting off what she had meant to say and glaring fiercely. "I'll no' risk me ship an' me crew, reward be damned. I'll take ye no furth'r."

"But what are they doing here?" Lucy asked desperately, choosing, for the moment, not to argue the point. She couldn't really blame Balthasar for not being willing to risk the wrath of Calormen by interfering in whatever their business was on the promise of some future reward. _I suppose the whole point of a reward is that you are alive to claim it,_ she reflected, though she didn't think she quite understood why someone would need to be offered a reward in the first place. Helping someone else had always been reward enough for Lucy.

Balthasar snorted and shoved the glass back into his pocket as he took up his staff. "Can ye no' tell? I's a blockade, yer queenliness. The Calormenes," he paused, and spat on the deck—making it very clear just what he thought about Calormenes. "Don' wan' any o' yer kin' ge'ing through t' 'elp t'e Islanders."

Lucy stared at him blankly, her mind feeling strangely slow to process this new information. _But, it doesn't have anything to do with Calormen!_ She though desperately. _Peter sent me here to deal with the council, not a fleet of Calormene warships._

Balthasar sighed, obviously interpreting her expression correctly as confusion. "Ye didn' know, did ye? Calormen 'as decided t' stake their claim on t'e Islands, seeing as ye lot aven't done anythin' 'ere since ye arrived." He growled something else, which Lucy could not quite make out, under his breath, and turned away from the railing. "Red!" he motioned to Rhegus, who had kept his distance but remained within earshot.

Lucy saw her friend bristle at the old nickname, or perhaps at Balthasar's manner—or lack of manners—in general, but he approached readily enough and the concern in his expression when he looked at Lucy made her want to run to him and throw her arms around him. "Your majesty?" Though it was Balthasar who had called for him it was to Lucy that Rhegus inclined his head, acting as if his former captain was not even present.

Balthasar laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Been eavesdroppin', 'ave ye then Red? Ye always did 'ear more than was good fo' ye."

Rhegus ignored him and kept his gaze focused on Lucy. "Queen Lucy, are ye well?" he asked quietly, eyebrows furrowing in concern.

Lucy did not feel at all well. Her head was spinning, but whether from the shock of discovering the Calormenes' involvement in the Lone Islands or from the lingering terror of her dream she could not be sure. _There's something about their sails…_ the thought tugged at the back of her mind and she closed her eyes briefly, thinking back to the red pattern across the black fabric. _Flames._ She was certain that was what they were—it was the same insignia she had seen a hundred times on the banners of visiting Calormene dignitaries, but there was something else—a pattern in the flames that she had not noticed before.

It was a vulture in flight—foul wings spread against the background of inky blackness, thin, foul neck craning downward as if scanning the deck of the ships below for its next meal. Lucy shuddered, the terror of her dream rushing back as she remembered the screams of the panicked horse and saw the young man with her brother's face sliding slowly to his death over the edge of the cliff.

 _It wasn't just a nightmare._ She realised, feeling dread creeping over her. _I should have known, with what Aslan has been showing me!_ It felt like a warning, but it hadn't been Edmund falling over the cliff—not really—and yet…she could not shake the feeling that it was somehow all connected. The ships, the vulture, Susan weeping, and Peter and Edmund in a tunnel before Edmund crumpled to the ground and the light was extinguished.

"Queen Lucy?" Rhegus' voice was coming from very far away, or from underwater, strange and echoing. She blinked, the world slipping in and out of focus as the faces of the two men before her seemed to ripple. "Lucy!"

She shook her head and forced her eyes to focus. "We need to go to Calormen." She wasn't sure where the sudden certainty came from—one moment she had been frightened, unsure of anything—and the next she was filled with a rush of warmth and strength. "Captain Balthasar, I need this ship. You can help me and be rewarded, or you and your crew are welcome to take the rowboats and try your luck with the Calormenes."

The pirate captain stared at her. Rhegus stared at her, his mouth half open as if he had been about to speak. Lucy was quite certain that if anyone else had suggested such a thing she would be staring at them too. _I must sound as though I've gone mad!_

"Look 'ere, li'le ge'l," Balthasar began, his expression thunderous, and then he stopped. His face changed, going from quarrelsome and flushed with rage one moment to paper-white the next. He staggered, clutched at his staff and Rhegus' shoulder for support, and his mouth dropped open.

Lucy did not need to turn to know what had so changed him. She could feel the Lion's presence at her back, could smell the wild, sweet scent that clung to His fur, and she stepped back, feeling the solid warmth of His side at her back.

Rhegus dropped to his knees, shoulders slumping forward as he bowed his head, and Balthasar, unbalanced by the other man's sudden absence as his support stumbled and went down heavily on one knee—still clutching his staff and gaping at the Lion, Who had seemed to appear from thin air on his ship.

Aslan was purring. Lucy could feel the rumble of it through the strong chest that pressed against her back and she smiled, wanting to turn and throw her arms around His neck, but somehow sensing that now was the time for her to stand strong and proud at His side instead.

"Well done," He said quietly, His breath warm on the top of Lucy's head as He spoke. "You understand now, Lucy."

"I'm not sure I do, Aslan," Lucy admitted, though she knew there was no shame in it.

Aslan chuckled and stepped past her, towards the kneeling pirates—the members of Balthasar's crew had all dropped to the deck as soon as they saw the Lion—and approached Rhegus, who was still kneeling looking as dejected as Lucy had ever seen anyone look.

"My son." Aslan bent His head until it was level with Rhegus' bowed one and Lucy saw that the Captain's shoulders were shaking. "Rise."

Rhegus stood shakily, though he kept his head bowed and did not look at the Lion, and Aslan seemed satisfied. He turned to Balthasar next and Lucy saw His lips draw back in a faint snarl as He regarded the pirate.

"Balthasar." His voice was terrible, and Balthasar trembled, his knuckles going white where they gripped his staff. "You have not been kind to your fellow men, my child." The pirate's shoulders shook, and Lucy felt very sorry for him, though she was certain that Aslan wasn't nearly as cross with the Captain as He seemed to be. "Will you do as my chosen Queen requests, Pirate Lord?" Aslan asked, His voice was quiet, but the sound seemed to carry further than it ought to have and Lucy knew everyone on the deck could hear what was being said.

Balthasar straightened his shoulder slightly and lifted his head. His face was still terribly pale, but a hint of a challenging gleam had entered his sharp old eyes. "Beggin' yer pardon, Lord, bu' t'e world 'asn't been kind t' _me_. I've 'ad t' work fo' everythin' I 'ave, an' I won' risk i' for someone I don' know."

It was, Lucy reflected later, a rather brave thing for Balthasar to say, especially considering that he was nose-to-nose with a Lion nearly four times his size. _She_ knew Aslan would not do anything to harm him, but she supposed that Balthasar was much less likely to realise his statement would not result in his immediate death.

Aslan chuckled, his breath ruffling through Balthasar's grey hair and beard and stirring the folds of his cloak. "You risk nothing that belongs to you, Balthasar, save for your life."

Balthasar's faced paled further still and he sagged visibly, the challenging spark fading from his eyes. He looked very old and weary—faded—next to the brilliant gold of the Lion and Lucy was tempted to go to him and assure him that he had nothing to fear.

She wasn't entirely sure she knew why she was so certain of that. It wasn't as if Aslan was a tame lion. She had seen Him charge through the ranks of the Witch's army, scattering Fell Creatures before Him with a snarl on His lips, but they had been fallen—evil—Balthasar, she somehow knew, was not. He was not a good man, Rhegus had been certain to reiterate that on more than one occasion, but he wasn't exactly _bad_ either.

"Will you do as your Queen asks, my child?" Aslan asked gently, and Balthasar nodded shakily.

"I will, Lord," he mumbled, and the words sounded rather sullen, but were no less sincere for that. "If you command it."

"I do." There was a swirl of golden fire, a roar of sound that filled Lucy with a tingling rush of warmth and joy, and then the deck was empty, save for the kneeling pirates, the Narnians who had emerged from below decks at some point during the conversation, and Rhegus, standing at her side, blinking and dazed.

Balthasar was still kneeling, though he was struggling clumsily to stand, and Lucy crossed to him quickly and offered her hand. He peered up at her, half-frowning, and accepted her aid less grudgingly than she had expected.

"I suppose ye'll be wantin' t' leave now?" he mumbled, staring down at the deck beneath the worn leather of his boots and refusing to meet her gaze.

Lucy smiled, even if he wasn't going to see it she knew it would show in her voice. "If you please, Captain."

Balthasar grunted something that might have been assent and stumped away, leaning heavily on his staff, the twist in his spine more pronounced than ever. Lucy watched him go a little sadly—he had seen Aslan, had bowed to his authority, but he didn't seem any happier to obey Aslan than he had been to obey her.

"I's no use 'oping 'e'll change, Queen Lucy," Rhegus said quietly. "'E's set in 'is ways, is old Balthasar, 'e'll obey, bu' don' think fer a moment tha' 'e'll be 'appy to." He sighed and pulled out his pipe. "If ye don' mind my askin', why are we going to Calormen?"

Lucy considered for a moment, turning back to the railing and resting her elbows on it as she listened to sailors shouting orders and curses as they slowly got down to the business of turning the ship's prow towards the Southwest. "You know, Captain, I'm not really sure." She smiled and turned her face upwards to the sky, feeling the warmth of the morning sun sink into her bones and dispel the last, lingering traces of the dread and terror she had felt before Aslan's arrival. "But I have a feeling we will all know soon."

 _ **There's that, and soon you will see a re-convergence of storylines! Hopefully you are still enjoying this story...please do leave me a review and let me know! Up next is a chapter about Peter and Edmund in Tashbaan...so keeping checking back for updates!**_

 _ **Cheers,**_

 _ **A**_


	23. The Raven's Tale

**Greetings, dear readers! I'm updating on time! Super excited about that! Anyway, here's the next chapter, obviously, and this one also has a lot of important stuff in it, so happy reading!**

 **Kaladin: I'm happy you're still here! I am a notoriously bad reviewer myself, so I ccertainly cannot blame you for reviewing sporadically. :-) As long as you are enjoying the story then I am doing my job well! Thank you for reviewing!**

 **Aslan's Daughter: Good! I am always pleased to hear it when my readers can feel the same thing my characters do! Thank you!**

 _22_ _nd_ _. of Greenroof, 1012—Second-day_

"Edmund!" The slowly dawning realisation that it might not _be_ Edmund who had just crumpled to the ground did very little to slow Peter's steps as he dashed across the few paces between him and his brother and dropped to his knees beside him.

"Careful, your majesty," croaked Sallowpad, flying after him and swooping down to land on the ground at what he must have considered a safe distance from both Edmund and the sword. "Poisonous creatures may often play at being dead, but their fangs will still pierce."

Peter spared a moment to glare at the Raven. "He's my brother," he snapped, tearing a piece of cloth from the increasingly ragged cloak still bundled around his boots and Rhindon's sheath and using it to wipe, rather ineffectively, at the blood on Edmund's face. _I hope,_ he added silently, his free hand clenching into a fist against the sandy earth.

Sallowpad croaked something that might have been a nervous laugh and Peter resisted the urge to punch him—mainly because the Raven was slightly too far away for him to reach. "He is someone's brother," the Bird continued sonorously, "But certainly he is not yours."

Peter ignored him as best as he could and focused instead on studying Edmund's face. Sallowpad claimed that this was not Edmund, that, somehow, he was in imposter, and Peter himself had heard Edmund speak in a voice that did not seem to be his own—and there was Aslan's warning as well. _Not dead. Not alive._

But it _was_ Edmund. Every detail of his face was identical to what Peter remembered—the faint sprinkling of freckles across his nose, the thin scar—half hidden by his hair—that ran along one side of his forehead, and his mannerisms too had been the same. The same sarcastic wit that could fade to grave seriousness at a moment's notice, the crooked half-grin that both mocked and supported Peter when he had done something particularly clumsy, but there had been moments—more than Peter wanted to admit having noticed—when he had seen his brother's expression fade to blankness, when his responses had been slow, and there had been the first night at the inn when—for a few terrible heartbeats, he had seen no hint of recognition in Edmund's eyes.

"Who would you have me believe he is?" he asked, not turning to look at the Raven—not wanting Sallowpad to see his own uncertainty. From the corner of his eye he saw the Bird hop closer, head tilted to one side as he fixed a single, beady eye on Edmund.

"He is the son of Tarkaan Obresh, a child of Calormene in spirit, if not in body, and he is an enemy of Narnia." The Raven's voice was sharp, and his words fell like razors dropped from a cliff.

"But he _was_ Edmund." Peter turned his head in time to see Sallowpad ruffle his feathers in the avian version of a shrug. "Only a moment ago." _Wasn't he?_

"You didn't ask who he _was_ ," the Raven said primly, "You asked who he _is_."

Peter ground his teeth together, fighting back the string of curses at uncooperative, cryptic Ravens that clamoured to be spoken, and drew in a breath.

" _Losing your temper won't help Pete."_ He glanced sharply down at Edmund—he could not think of him as anyone but Edmund—but his brother had not moved, and his eyes were still closed. Still, it was something Edmund had told him more times than he cared to remember—not that he had often listened.

 _I'll listen now,_ he vowed silently. _If you'll stop being an idiot and wake up._ Edmund didn't show any signs of being aware of his silent bribe, and Peter sighed. At least his nose seemed to have stopped bleeding—which, until this point at least—Peter had taken as a good sign.

"Do you have news of Brickle and Menwy?" he asked Sallowpad shortly, gathering up Rhindon and slipping it back into its sheath before returning the sword belt to its place around his waist. Sallowpad peered up at him, head still cocked to one side, and appeared to be considering.

"I do, oh king. They rode west, pursued by horsemen of the Guard, but Menwy's hooves are swift and she bid me tell you she will return once their pursuers have given up the chase." He ruffled his feathers in alarm and hopped sideways, further away, when Peter stooped and started hauling Edmund to his feet—he slung one of Edmund's arms around his shoulders and managed to maneuver him into a position that was somewhat reminiscent of standing. He knew he risked turning his ankle—hoped it would not be his recently mended one—by walking through the dangerously shifting sand between them and the Tombs, but it wasn't as if there was much choice. Staying in the open any longer almost guaranteed that they would be seen from the city.

"You would do well to leave him here, High King," Sallowpad said, watching Peter struggle a few steps forward and apparently choosing to ignore the fact that his king was muttering curses under his breath and likely to be in a very foul temper if annoyed further. "His brother will be searching for him."

Peter felt his tenuous hold on his temper snap. If he had not been supporting Edmund, who still had shown no sign of awareness, he would have lunged at the Raven with the intent of throttling the infuriating Bird into silence—at least for a moment. As it was, hampered his brother's unconscious body, he had to content himself with glaring and shouting.

"He is MY brother!" Somewhere, in the part of his mind that seemed to be ruled by Orieus' careful training, he knew that shouting was a monumentally terrible idea this close to the city when so much relied on their location not being known, but his impulsive nature had never entirely been ruled by reason—however hard Orieus had tried.

Sallowpad croaked, sounding rather angry and insulted—though not nearly as angry as Peter felt—and launched himself skyward, circling just above him so that Peter had to tilt his head back to look at him.

"I have warned you," Sallowpad informed him indignantly as he glided overhead, wings still as he found an air current to support him. "On your own head be it."

Peter muttered another curse under his breath as he shuffled towards the looming Tombs. His head ached, his throat burned from lack of water, and his ankle—much to his annoyance—had chosen to begin aching again. _I'm not leaving him,_ he determined silently, as if it had ever been a consideration to begin with. He looked up at the Raven, still circling and nodded, feeling his anger drain away to exhaustion. "It always is, my good Raven. It always is."

Sallowpad, seeming to sense that any danger to his health had passed, glided back to the ground and regarded Peter with slightly less cunning than he had before—he almost seemed sympathetic. "Peridan may know more of what became of your brother. A mouse in a den of vipers may learn much by being silent and keeping his ears open."

Peter sighed—he had always found the Raven's proverbs tiresome, but they were even more so now. The shelter of the Tombs was only few paces away now, and—rather than snapping at the Raven again—he decided to focus his remaining energy on half dragging his still unconscious brother into the shadow cast by one of the largest tombs.

It was the one Menwy had camped behind, and he was relieved to see that the Centauress' pack, along with his and Brickle's, still rested against its base, covered by an oilskin to protect them from the elements. He settled Edmund next to the packs, and sank down next to him, rolling his shoulders to try to ease the tension in his muscles. Sallowpad fluttered over and perched atop Menwy's pack, cocking his head at Peter.

"Are Sons of Adam meant to be so very red?" he asked, stretching his wings before tucking them back against his sides.

Peter sighed and rummaged through his own pack until he found a waterskin. The water was warm and tasted stale, but it eased the dry burning of his throat.

"No," he said at last, setting the water aside and leaning his head back against the cool, baked clay of the tomb. "Only if we've been stumbling about in the sun all day."

His head ached, and he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes— _Just for a moment,_ he told himself—and sleep. In reality he knew it was likely to be far longer than a moment, and so he shook himself and forced his leaden eyelids back open. Sallowpad was cleaning his feathers, appearing utterly uninterested in the two kings resting in the shade of the tomb, but Peter saw his head tilt occasionally, one beady eye directing itself at Edmund, and he sighed.

"Very well, my good Raven," he said, sitting up straighter and propping his aching—and slightly swollen ankle up on his pack—tell me what you know of my brother and this Tarkaan, Obridesh."

Sallowpad did not immediately answer. His head was half hidden under his wing as he tugged at a few of his feathers with his beak, straightening and smoothing them into place, and Peter waited, trying not let his annoyance show. After a long moment the Raven withdrew his head from under his wing, stretched, and settled back on his perch atop Menwy's abandoned pack to regard Peter intently.

"Your brother, oh king, thinks himself a clever fox, leading his hunters into a trap, but he has not the sense of a nestling."

Peter snorted and looked over at his brother— _if it is_ my _brother_ —half-expecting Edmund to make an indignant comment. Edmund, however, seemed stubbornly determined not to wake for anything, even to defend himself regarded whether or not he had a modicum of sense, and Peter sighed. _Wake up, please, just wake up._ Edmund didn't stir.

Peter turned back to Sallowpad, and nodded, feeling both very tired and very old. "Not when it comes to his own safety, I know."

Sallowpad muttered something that sounded vaguely like "or at all" and shuffled into a more comfortable position on the pack. "Queen Susan sent me after him nearly as soon as she had learned where he had gone, but by the time I had crossed the desert your royal brother had already found trouble. I found him and Peridan in the rooms of the Tarkaan Obridesh," here he paused and ruffled his feathers in a kind of shudder. "I warned him that a vulture circled in the massing storm, but he would not heed me and sent me to find a ship to the Lone Islands."

"And there weren't any," Peter added, clenching his hands into fists. _Because that bastard Tarkaan ordered a blockade, and even if Lucy did escape the pirates and the ocean I still sent her right into the middle of it._

Sallowpad dipped his head in acknowledgement of Peter's audible words and continued. "I told your brother as much, High King, and then he fell foul of a Calormene patrol. He was not…" he turned his beady eye towards Edmund and seemed to consider for a moment. "He was not well. He stumbled like a drunkard and fought with less wisdom than when he first began to train, but that fool Peridan," the sonorous croaking that emanated from the Bird rather startled Peter until he realised that Sallowpad was laughing. "That fool ran and lost himself among the streets."

Peter stifled a groan and rubbed a hand across his eyes. The sunlit morning in his study when he had sent Edmund and Peridan to Calormen seemed so long ago. _What the blazes was I thinking?_ He knew what he had been thinking, or rather, what Edmund had been maneuvering him into thinking, but it hardly made a difference now.

" _What is done is done,"_ he remembered Aslan telling them, years before, and sighed again. _It may be done,_ he thought, turning to glare at his still unresponsive brother. _But we will have words, my brother._

"No sooner was your brother disarmed than the Tarkaan appeared," Sallowpad went on, the disgust making in his voice making it quite clear what he thought of someone who waited until his enemy was defenceless before appearing. "I followed him and his men when they took King Edmund back to the Tarkaan's palace and waited two days before I saw the Tarkaan emerge and go about his business. I would have followed him, but not five minutes after I saw someone I took to be King Edmund leave the palace after him."

"Took to be?" Peter asked sharply. Nothing Sallowpad had told him to this point seemed particularly out of the ordinary or something he could not have guessed for himself—certainly nothing to justify the Raven's insistence that the person still laying unconscious between them was not Edmund.

"He had your brother's face, but not his manner, and he had a strange look in his eyes—as if of someone who is not quite alive." The Bird ruffled his wings in the gesture Peter had begun to interpret as a shrug. "I have seen his majesty assume the manners of others more times than I could count with my wing feathers, and so I kept my distance and did not suspect him of any…treason."

There was a strange pause in his speech before the word treason and Peter wondered if Sallowpad was one of the few Narnians who knew the truth of Edmund's first few days in Narnia. As far as he knew the knowledge had not spread beyond Orieus, Tumnus, the Beavers, and the loyal Fox who had helped them escape from the Witch's Wolves, but he supposed that didn't mean that _Edmund_ hadn't told anyone. Peter shook his head, deciding pondering Edmund's motivations would be unlikely to do him much good currently, and motioned for Sallowpad to continue.

"He met the Tarkaan in a market and they spoke for some minutes, behaving—as far as I could make out—as if they were old and dear friends. Peridan saw their meeting as well, though how he happened to be there I could not say, and came to the conclusion that your brother had betrayed us all and must be brought to justice."

Peridan, Peter was quite certain, had not been entrusted with the knowledge of Edmund's past actions and he supposed he really couldn't blame the fellow for not realising how utterly ridiculous it was to suspect Edmund, of all people, of being a traitor. _Once, and mistakenly at that, was quite enough for him._

"Naturally I attempted to disavow him of any such notions," he paused to peer at Peter, looking very pleased with himself for having defended his King. Peter attempted a smile, which seemed to somewhat appease the Raven's need for praise, and Sallowpad continued. "But he was quite insistent, and I led him to the Tarkaan's palace and stayed to watch from the balcony. Peridan confronted your brother, and it was then that I saw he was an old fox no longer, but a serpent."

 _Old fox?_ For a moment Peter felt an absurd desire to laugh, and wondered if Edmund was aware of the Raven's name for him. It was, he decided, rather fitting.

"I saw the Tarkaan strike Peridan a terrible blow, and I heard him call the one I took to be _your_ brother both brother and Emreth."

That seemed to be all Sallowpad had to say and he settled down on the pack and tucked his head under one wing. Peter stared at him. Sallowpad did not seem to notice and remained still as a statue, offering no further explanation.

Since staring at the Raven seemed to have no practical uses Peter turned his attention to Edmund instead. He still looked like Edmund, his face peaceful and relaxed as it only was in sleep, and he had begun snoring softly. How many nights had Peter sat awake in the dark, slumped in a chair next to Edmund's bed, listening to him breathe, merely to reassure himself that his brother was alive? He had stopped counting years ago.

 _Emreth._ He knew that name, Sallowpad must have known he would recognise it and therefore thought no further explanation was necessary. Perhaps he was right.

" _I had a brother once,"_ Tarkaan Obridesh had told him when Peter had confronted him after Edmund's return to Cair Paravel from his last ill-fated visit to Tashbaan. _"I would not have let him come to harm, as you have let yours, barbarian. I would give my life for Emreth—how far would you go, o fierce king, to save the life of your brother?"_

Peter had wanted nothing more than to punch him and had been restrained only by the memory of Susan's calm, wise counsel regarding how he should avoid beginning a war with Calormen. It had not struck him at the time (he had been far too angry to spare much thought for anything), but looking back he remembered there had been something strange in the way the Tarkaan had spoken of his brother—both as someone in the past, _"I_ had _a brother"_ and as someone he would still give his own life for.

 _Blood to blood, soul to soul._ And Edmund had seemed to remember the priests, however vaguely.

 _Son of Obresh._ That too made a certain, terrible sense. Calormene nobles often named their sons with variants of their own names, Obresh becoming Obridesh as the name was passed from father to son.

 _Neither alive nor dead. Brother, but not mine._ He shuddered and closed his eyes, pressing his clenched fists against them. His head hurt with the weight of realisation and the beginning of understanding. _But how? That_ _I don't understand. I can't. No. No. No. Let me be wrong, let it all be a mistake. Aslan help me!_

"Pete?"

His eyes flew open as he shifted back in alarm, half drawing Rhindon. Edmund was awake, half propped up on one elbow, and was regarding his brother with a rather bemused expression. Sallowpad shifted, stuck his head out from under his wing for a moment, then settled back into place.

Peter stared at his brother and Edmund stared back, one eyebrow raised in inquiry. "What?" He sat up, brushed sand from his hair with a vaguely disgusted expression, and looked around curiously. "Lovely campsite you've found yourself Pete. You do know these tombs are meant to be haunted, don't you?"

"I—" Peter shook his head, completely at a loss for words. This was, unquestionably, Edmund. _But maybe…_ he picked up the waterskin he had set aside earlier, feigning a casual air. "Ed, catch."

He tossed the waterskin and Edmund, without any sign of hesitation leaned slightly to one side and caught it deftly—with his right hand. _Of course he did, it isn't as if he's left-handed._ Except, he had been, and then he had collapsed.

Edmund (and Peter was absolutely certain it _was_ Edmund) uncorked the waterskin and drank, grimacing presumably at the stale taste, and tossed the now empty skin back to Peter. "Thanks." He looked around again, seemed to notice Sallowpad for the first time, and frowned slightly. "How did we get here? I remember being outside the gates…" he broke off, frowning, and absentmindedly rubbed a hand across his forehead as if his head was hurting again. "Sallowpad?"

The Raven's head emerged again, and he blinked one beady eye. "Your majesty." Then, without another word, he went back to his nap. Peter stared at him for a moment, then returned to staring at Edmund. Obviously Sallowpad thought he _was_ Edmund. _Still? Again?_

Edmund glared, seeming rather unimpressed by both the napping Raven and his staring brother, and crossed his arms. "Does someone want to tell me what the—"

He likely would have added a few colourful epithets to the question he was doubtless forming—making it perfectly clear what he thought of idiotic brothers who couldn't manage to explain themselves—but he was interrupted by the sound of galloping hooves as Menwy, panting, glossy coat foamy with sweat, and dark hair hanging damply around her face, burst into the circle of tombs with Brickle, red faced and nauseous looking, clinging to her back with his stubby arms wrapped as far around her torso as he could reach. She skidded to a stop and dropped to her knees, head hanging in exhaustion, and Brickle tumbled, retching from her back.

"Is all well, good cousins?" Peter asked, already on his feet, in case all was not well.

Menwy, obviously too winded to speak nodded slightly, though Brickle (who was still looking rather ill) mumbled something which sound more like no than yes.

"The…Calormenes," Menwy panted after a long moment. "Are…lost on the…Western Bank…of the river."

Peter stared at her, slowly realising that her hair, and Brickle's tunic if it came to that, were far too damp for all of the moisture to be sweat. "You—you swam the river?"

Menwy nodded, exhausted, and folded her legs under her—eyes sliding closed as she fell asleep almost instantly. Brickle staggered to his feet, shaking badly, for once not even seeming to have the energy to tug on his beard.

"Your majesty," he bowed to Edmund, nodded towards Peter and stumped away to throw himself face-down on the sand. Considering that he was a Dwarf Peter thought it just as likely that he was trying to embrace the ground as it was that he was planning to sleep. Edmund watched him for a moment, shrugged, and returned to glaring at Peter.

"Well?" he demanded. "As long as everyone is asleep, or very ill, you might as well tell me why you're behaving so strangely." He seemed to consider for a moment, then shrugged. "More strangely than usual, anyway."

 _I can't tell him._ It would have been both easier and a thousand times more terrible, he realised dully, if Edmund had woken and had not been himself. But this _was_ Edmund—witty, stubborn, sarcastic, infinitely frustrating fool, and beloved brother. _I can't tell him that he is somehow not himself, and is somehow, occasionally, a Tarkaan's dead brother. He'll think me mad._ Edmund was still glaring expectantly at him and Peter felt a half hysterical laugh rising in his chest. He forced it back with an effort and shook his head.

"More strangely than usual?" he tried to keep his voice light, forced a smile, and shrugged. "I think you've spent too long in the son, brother mine."

Edmund glared at him a moment longer, dark eyes narrowing appraisingly, and Peter held his gaze with an effort. _I'll fix this, I promise, but don't push me to tell you—please, Eddie, please understand._

Something of his silent plea must have shown in his face, and after another long moment Edmund shrugged and looked away. "Have it your way then," he muttered, sounding distinctly cross. Edmund, for all that he kept his own secrets—and kept them very well—despised it when Peter tried to keep anything from him.

 _And last time I tried it he ended up finding out, acting like a manipulative, scheming, stubborn—_ he forced himself to stop before the list could continue and sighed. _He'll find out eventually,_ Peter thought resignedly—no one who knew Edmund could believe anything else. _But by the time he does I'll have gotten the truth out of Obridesh and I'll know how to fix this._ There wasn't another option—not one that bore thinking of at any rate—and Peter squared his shoulders and forced another smile, for his own benefit as much as in an attempt to appease his cross brother.

Edmund rolled his eyes and shrugged again, then peered up at the sun, which hovered a few fingerbreadths above the Western horizon, sending ripples of fiery colour across the few streamers of high, fast moving clouds.

Peter followed the direction of his gaze, shuddering slightly as a shadow briefly flashed between them and the sun. _Just a cloud, or bird,_ he thought, annoyed at his reaction, but the foreboding remained and somehow he was certain that it was a vulture.

It would be sundown soon, and if they were to slip unnoticed into the city, find their way into the sewers, and from there into the cellar of Obridesh's palace to find Peridan, then night would be the best time for it. _But…_ he looked back at Edmund, wondering guilty—for the first time in twelve years—if he could trust him.

"You should get some sleep," Edmund told him shortly, still studying the sky. "I'll wake you in time to go."

Peter nodded, knowing it would do him little good to actively argue with Edmund and settled back against the tomb, feigning an attempt to sleep, though he was determined to stay awake. Not, he told himself firmly, because he did not trust Edmund, but because he was worried Edmund might collapse again at any moment. It was, after all, mostly true.

 **Well...up next we have the Pevensie brothers ventured into the tunnels (sewers, eew) beneath Tashbaan in search of a missing comrade and a scheming Tarkaan. Hopefully it will be up in exactly a week :-). Do let me know what you thought of this chapter in a review if you can; I always love hearing from all of you!**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	24. The Path That Runs Below

**Um...Okay, hi! I didn't forget about my faithful readers waiting patiently for a chapter that was late by TWO WEEKS! I really am dreadfully sorry, and I don't even have a good excuse...I just got sidetracked. My apologies! Hopefully you will forgive me and keep reading?**

 **Aslan's Daughter: I was actually listening to the Les Mis soundtrack while writing this! Glad you're still reading, and I hope you like this chapter as well!**

 **Guest: I'm SO SORRY! I really meant to get it up in a week :-(, but...I got sidetracked. Your review is actually while I'm posting now! It reminded me that I really was supposed to be working on this story, and got me back on track, so thank you very much! Hopefully you will accept this chapter as a peace offering for my abysmal update speed?**

 _22_ _nd_ _. of Greenroof, 1012—Second-day_

Once the sun had set Peter, Edmund, and a very nervous Brickle made their cautious way back towards the polished marble walls of the city that loomed up, pure white against the indigo sky. Menwy was still asleep, hidden in the shadow of the tombs behind them, but Sallowpad had stirred as they gathered their things and peered out from beneath his wing with a solemn promise to keep watch until they returned.

As they walked Peter could see, beyond the walls, towards the central hill of the city, the flicker of torches and a few gleams of light from windows, but the heavy stone hid the lower city from sight and gave the whole place an air of danger and mystery.

They skirted around the edge of the wall, keeping to the shadows, and making their way around the right side of the circular barrier—towards the river and palaces with gardens bordered by low walls that crowded thickly on the bank. At Edmund's insistence Peter kept a few paces back with Brickle, watching cautiously as his brother slipped ahead, quiet and swift as a shadow.

It made sense—reasonably he knew that—Edmund had always been good at this sort of thing, and if they were to run into a patrol of guards or a Tarkaan out for a late night stroll Edmund could warn them of the danger and be gone in the next heartbeat. Peter knew very well that he could not say the same of himself or of Brickle.

But still… _If it isn't Edmund…_ If it wasn't Edmund, then they were being led into a trap.

They had worked their way down the riverbank, keeping in the shadow cast by the city walls, and the roar of the water was nearly deafening when Edmund suddenly stopped, seemed to consider for a moment, and then vanished into what seemed to be a small alcove in the wall.

Peter hurried after him, his boots slipping on the damp grass and nearly sending him down. Brickle puffed out what sounded vaguely like a laugh as he stumped along, infuriatingly steady on his feet even over the rough terrain and slippery grass.

"Pete!" Edmund was kneeling in front of an iron barred gate, poking at a large padlock with the tip of Peter's spare dagger. "I could use a little light."

Peter fumbled for a moment, trying to strike a spark from flint while holding the torch he had brought awkwardly under on arm. The torch flared after a moment and he shuffled further into the small alcove, trying to stand as much between the light and the low entrance as he could—hoping to shield the torch light from being seen.

Brickle mumbled something under his breath and slipped back out onto the river bank, presumably to keep watch, and Peter wondered idly what exactly they could do if they were caught. The alcove was barred by a heavy iron gate which seemed to lead into a low, dim tunnel that stretched away into darkness. There was no clear path of escape and the hair on the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably.

Edmund was cursing, kneeling with his head bent over the large padlock and chain that he still seemed to be stabbing at with the tip of the dagger. He looked up, scowling when the light flared, and Peter could see a thin stream of blood flowing from his nose.

"Ed?" You're—" _Not you?_ "Bleeding."

Edmund swiped carelessly at the blood and shrugged. "We need to move," his voice was strained, and Peter didn't quite miss the flash of pain that crossed his face and was gone just as swiftly. "It wasn't locked last time I came in this way." He rocked back on his heels, slipping slightly in a pair of Peter's spare boots which were much too large for him, and rubbed absently at his forehead. "Do you still have that cloak pin Lucy gave you last Christmas?"

Peter had forgotten about the small pin that held his cloak until that moment, but he pulled it free hurriedly and passed it to Edmund. The pin was only two or three inches long at most, but it was much slimmer than the dagger and, even to Peter inexperienced as he was at picking locks, it looked like it might fit into the workings of the padlock.

Cursing under his breath Edmund leant back over the lock and Peter could see that his hands were shaking—not badly, not enough to make him drop the cloak pin, but enough to be noticeable even in the dim light of the single torch.

 _It's getting worse,_ he realised, feeling the heavy weight of dread settle more menacingly over him. He still had no idea of how it could have happened, of how his brother had come to a consciousness with someone long dead, but however it had happened it seemed to be taking a toll on Edmund.

The lock clicked audibly, and Peter watched as the iron grate swung inward, wincing at the creaking sound its hinges made as it did so. It couldn't really have been very loud, but in the tense silence it sounded deafening and for a moment Peter was almost certain that every guard in Tashbaan must have heard the noise.

"Brickle!" Edmund was already stepping into the low entrance as he called over his shoulder for the Dwarf and held out a hand for the torch Peter held. Peter hesitated, trying to peer past him into the gloom, but he could make out little more than a shadowy tunnel that went straight on for about ten yards before it was lost completely in the gloom.

Brickle pushed past him, tugging at his beard nervously, and stepped up to the entrance to stand next to Edmund, and Peter looked quickly back in the direction of the riverbank. It still seemed to be deserted, no patrols were visible in the distance and the night was still quiet, the eerie stillness broken only by the distant hooting off an owl from one of the riverside gardens.

There was no immediate sight or sound of danger, but something seemed wrong—there was a charged feeling to the air, like a storm waiting to break, that prickled the hair on the back of his neck and set his heart racing in an uneven, eager rhythm. _Someone is watching us._

"Peter!" Edmund was still holding a hand out for the torch and glaring. He did not seem to sense the same, indefinable sense of being observed, and Peter shrugged the feeling off with an effort, passed his brother the torch, and pulled the creaking gate shut after them as they shuffled forward into the narrow tunnel.

The smell was not nearly as bad as Peter had imagined it would be when Edmund had told him the tunnel connected to a section of the sewers, but the air was thick with the smell of damp, mold, and less pleasant odours that seemed to drift out from the shadows further along.

The torchlight sent their shadows dancing up the curved walls, turning them to grotesquely warped versions of themselves, and making Peter turn his head sharply every time a flicker of movement caught his eye. Their footsteps thudded dully on the uneven stone beneath their feet and echoed back, magnified by the bare stone and sounding loud as the thundering footfalls of a giant. Even Brickle, who Peter had thought likely to be the most comfortable under ground seemed uneasy and Peter could see his eyes darting back and forth frantically—from one wall to the other and back again, punctuated every few moments by a quick glance over his shoulder.

They kept on in this way for what seemed to Peter an eternity, though it was probably only about ten minutes, before the tunnel before them split, one branch of it sloping down steeply to their left and the other continuing in a vaguely upward direction to their right. The floor at the juncture was covered by a few inches of brackish looking water that ran in a sluggish stream from the right-hand tunnel and continued down to the left. Listening intently Peter could hear a rushing sound, like a stream when the snow was melting down from the mountains—swollen and angry—echoing up from the lower tunnel.

"That one leads to the river," Edmund told him quietly, his voice almost a whisper though it still echoed back from the walls. "We want the tunnel going up."

Peter nodded, though he looked rather dubiously up the indicated tunnel. The incline was gradual, but the water running down was likely to make the floor dangerously slick, especially in the dim lighting. "Maybe I should go first?" he suggested, trying—with no success—to keep his voice low enough that it would not echo.

Edmund looked over his shoulder, face ghostly pale even in the ruddy torchlight and shook his head wearily. "I'm the one who knows the way." He sounded terribly out of breath, despite the fact that they had been keeping to a moderate pace, and it seemed as if it was taking all his energy just to stay on his feet. Peter knew that, ordinarily, he would have made a sarcastic comment about Peter's inability to find the right direction even above ground, and the fact that he did not was beyond concerning.

Behind him he could hear the foul looking water splashing as Brickle shifted his feet in impatience or nervousness, but he ignored it for the time being and cautiously put a hand on Edmund's shoulder.

"Ed—"

Edmund brushed his hand off impatiently and shook his head. "Don't bother Peter, I'm fine. If I wasn't, I'm sure you would have told me." The words were sharp, but there was too much exhaustion in Edmund's voice for there to be much force in them. Without another word Edmund turned and started trudging up the slight incline with Brickle following him.

Peter stayed where he was for a moment, watching the twisted shadows on the walls and trying to keep from punching the nearest wall.

" _I'm sure you would have told me."_ To someone who did not know Edmund the words might have sounded like a declaration of trust, but Peter had taken them as they were meant—as a rebuke. Before he had time to dwell on the guilt that had crashed over him at the words however, he heard the echo of footsteps in the distance.

They were not coming from the right-hand tunnel that Edmund and Brickle were quickly fading from view in, but back from the way they had come. They were heavy, purposeful, and unmistakably growing closer. Looking back Peter could see, far in the distance of the tunnel, which was nearly pitch black again now that the torchlight was fading into the distance, another flickering light on the walls.

He turned and hurried up the tunnel after his brother and the Dwarf, dropping a hand to Rhindon's hilt as he went. He did not dare risk calling out in warning, afraid that his voice would echo back to the other group in the tunnels, and he slipped, nearly falling face first into the foul-smelling water that ran down the sloping floor before he caught himself on the wall.

A moment later he caught up with Edmund and Brickle and pushed past them before stopping and blocking their further progress. Edmund glared at him and opened his mouth to speak before he seemed to recognise the expression on Peter's face and gave him a questioning look instead.

Peter motioned back down the hallway and held up his other hand, signaling that they should be quiet. Edmund nodded and passed the torch to Brickle, who took it in one hand and used his other hand to wrap his heavy cloak around the still burning end. The light vanished instantly as the heavy material stifled the flames, leaving them in utter darkness with the sound of trickling water and their own breathing.

Looking back down the tunnel Peter strained his eyes, but could see nothing except the thick, black darkness that lay around them. A splashing to his left made him turn, though he still couldn't see anything, and a moment later a hand closed over his arm, pulling him back slightly towards the wall. Splashing to his right alerted him that Brickle was moving too and a moment later he was fairly certain that all three of them now had their backs to the sloping, damp wall.

Another long moment passed and then a laugh echoed up the tunnel, followed a moment later by the sound of low voices and the clatter and clink of weapons and armour. The darkness was slowly brightening where Peter knew the mouth of the tunnel must be and a moment later he could see the dark shapes of two Calormene guards, each holding a torch in one hand and a scimitar in the other, pass in front of the tunnel opening.

Peter held his breath, the sound of his own heartbeat nearly deafening, and waited. The guards stopped, but appeared unconcerned as they lounged against the walls, talking in low voices. They seemed to be on patrol, though why they would be patrolling the sewers Peter really couldn't imagine, and neither one of them seemed to have gone to the trouble of looking up into the tunnel where the three Narnians would have been in plain view, even pressed up against the walls.

Another moment slipped past, and then another, the guards laughed again, and both sheathed their scimitars and began passing a wineskin back and forth. Peter could feel his muscles start to cramp from the effort of remaining perfectly still and something damp was trickling uncomfortably down the back of his neck. He wasn't sure if it was sweat or just the general dampness of the tunnel itself, and wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to know, but he didn't dare reach back and brush it away.

After another long moment he felt more than heard movement to his left and staggered slightly as a weight slumped against him suddenly. Biting back a curse he shifted, trying to keep his balance on the slippery floor, before he could quite process what was happening—or what it might mean—he heard a low, half choked groan from Edmund.

The guards froze, one holding the wineskin midway to his lips and both turned with almost comical looks of surprise to the tunnel. "Ho there!" The one not holding the wineskin called, drawing his scimitar as he began to jog up the sloping floor, still holding the torch aloft.

Peter glanced quickly to his left, now that the tunnel was growing brighter in the approaching torchlight, and saw Edmund, half slumped against him, both hands pressed to his forehead and his face twisted with pain. To his right he heard Brickle curse, followed by the rasp of metal as the Dwarf drew a dagger from his belt.

There was no time. The other guard had dropped the wineskin and drawn his scimitar as well, and now both of them were charging up the tunnel, almost disturbingly sure-footed on the slick stones. In another moment they would be almost level with Brickle, who had stepped forward to meet them.

"Stay here," Peter hissed sharply, doing his best to prop Edmund up against the wall, and drawing Rhindon. He stepped past Brickle quickly and struck out at the first guard, barely seeing the man's surprised look, before their blades clashed together with a sound that echoed deafeningly off the walls. He was vaguely aware of Brickle rushing forward to meet the other Calormene, and then he was ducking under the swing of the first guard's scimitar—half blinded as the man thrust the torch towards his face with his other hand.

He stumbled back half a step, feeling his feet slip nearly out from under him, and caught another glimpse of Brickle, slashing methodically at the other guard's legs as he rolled out of the way of a scimitar blow. Peter got his balance back just in time to slash upwards with Rhindon, catching the guard a glancing blow across the front of his armour. The man stumbled back, slipped and went down, only to leap back to his feet a moment later—eyes blazing with fury under his helmet.

The Calormene cursed, and threw his torch—arcing it end over end towards Peter's face. As he ducked out of the way his recently broken ankle twisted under him—sending a jolt of pain up his leg and he went down hard, feeling his head collide with the wall.

Sparks danced in front of his eyes as, half-dazed, he stared up at the Calormene looming above him, scimitar raised to strike.

"Surrender to the power of Tash," the Calormene snarled, face twisting into a sneer as Peter shook his head—clearing the darkness from the edges of his vision. He had fallen half against the wall, his bad leg caught beneath him, and he could feel the dagger in his boot pressing against his leg, only an inch or two from his left hand.

He shifted slightly, trying to look as though he was still dazed by the fall, and pulled the dagger free. He threw it, silently cursing the fact that his aim was likely to be very off, and was not sure who was more surprised—himself or the Calormene—when the blade found its mark and sank to the hilt in the exposed flesh of the man's throat.

The guard's eyes widened momentarily, then the scimitar fell from his hands as he stumbled back, falling as he clutched at the hilt of the dagger protruding from his neck. Peter scrambled clumsily to his feet, looking around quickly, and saw that Brickle had the other Calormene on the ground and was holding his dagger at the man's throat with one hand and the Calormene's torch with the other. Edmund was slowly straightening from where he had been leaning against the wall, one hand still pressed to his head.

"We need to move," he said quietly, stumbling a little as he pushed away from the wall and stepped passed Peter to retrieve the fallen Calormene's scimitar. "Brickle, make sure he won't follow us," he added, nodding to the other guard.

Brickle nodded shortly, reversed the dagger in his hand, and slammed the hilt of it against the side of the Calormene's head—he seemed to have lost his helmet at some point—and the man slumped sideways into the muck.

Peter retrieved his dagger, wincing as his ankle throbbed but seemed to hold his weight for the moment, and then turned quickly back to Edmund. "Are you alright?"

Edmund shrugged and took the torch from Brickle, not quite meeting Peter's eyes. "Headache," he answered shortly. "Sorry for the trouble."

Peter tried to force a smile. "We would have needed to deal with them eventually. Or waited for them to pass out drunk," he added, trying to lift a bit of the tension.

Edmund gave him a half-hearted grin, and turned back to trudging up the tunnel. Peter shook his head and followed—he didn't see what else he could do.

After another ten minutes or so, and two more turns—each successive tunnel leading further upward—Edmund stopped in front of another iron grate that blocked what looked to be a blessedly dry and level corridor. There was a chain and a padlock here too, but after a moment of prodding at the lock with Peter's cloak pin the lock clicked open and the grate swung inward, silently this time.

"This leads to the cellars," Edmund whispered, still kneeling in front of the opening with one hand braced against the tunnel wall. Peter nodded and started to step past him into the corridor, eager to be away from the damp and the smell, but Edmund shook his head slightly as he got to his feet. "Just…just wait a minute Peter."

Peter turned back, frowning, and waited as Brickle passed the torch back to Edmund and stepped back slightly, seeming to sense that he was not meant to be included in the conversation. "What is it?"

"It's two left turns, then a right," Edmund said quietly, shifting the torch from one hand to the other, eyes fixed on the flickering shadows that danced up the walls. "Then there's a door—it's probably locked—have Brickle help you, we both know you can't pick a lock to save your life."

Peter frowned, not quite understanding what Edmund was trying to say, but feeling the sense of dread that had lessened since they defeated the guards return full force. "You're coming with us though."

Edmund grinned, for a moment looking far more like himself, and punched Peter lightly in the shoulder. "Course I am, you big oaf!" For a moment everything seemed right. This was how it had always been, Edmund making light-hearted comments while he worried far too much. Then Edmund's expression became serious again and he sighed. "It's…it's just in case." He shrugged, and pushed past Peter, taking the lead into the corridor, and Peter followed—carefully drawing Rhindon when Edmund drew his recently acquired scimitar.

The familiar feeling of the sword hilt in his grip reassured him somewhat, but there was still the uncomfortable, prickling sensation on the back of his neck as they moved forward through the shadowy corridor. Peter found himself glancing over his shoulder every few heartbeats, unable to shake the feeling that they were still being watched, but there was no one behind him except for Brickle, who was trudging along—half hidden in the shadows, tugging periodically on his beard.

They turned left at the next juncture, and continued on into a long room lined with old, broken crates and piles of rotting vegetable matter. A few squeaks signaled the presence of rats, and they hurried on to the next left, and into another corridor that was wider than the last one and seemed to be empty except for the dark shadows near the walls where the torchlight did not reach.

About halfway down the corridor Peter could just make out a door set into the right hand wall. It looked very solid, even in the dim light, and he strained his eyes—trying to make out the details. A moment later he almost collided with Edmund, who had stopped in the centre of the corridor, holding the torch up in one hand and the scimitar wavering visibly in his other hand.

The sense of wrongness crashed over Peter again, the force of realisation nearly enough to send him staggering back, as he belatedly realised that his brother was holding the torch in his right hand, and the scimitar in his left. Edmund seemed to realise it at the same moment and turned, staring blankly at Peter for a moment before he stumbled suddenly, as if struck from behind, and dropped the torch.

Instantly the corridor was plunged into darkness, as Peter stumbled forward, completely disoriented by the sudden shift, towards the sound of a metal blade clattering against stone as it was dropped.

 **And there's that! Leave me a review and let me know you're still around! I make no promises about the next update, I'll try to get it up soon...but we've all seen how reliable I was last time...**

 **Anyway, do let me know what you thought! I love reading reviews!**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	25. The Cost of Fealty

**Hi! Sorry again lovely readers...it's been awhile! I do hope some of you are still around! I've been ridiculously busy, but since yesterday was Christmas I really wanted to make sure I posted at least something, so for those of you still reading, here is your next chapter...two months in the making!**

 **Aslan's Daughter: The answer is...not a whole lot, but he might be getting better at it...maybe...possibly...Hope you're still around!**

 _23rd. of Greenroof, 1012—Third-day_

The sound of quiet, cautious footsteps roused Peridan from the uneasy doze he had fallen into with his back against the stone wall of the small cell. He had been left alone, save for the wizened old man who brought him food and water at infrequent intervals and, over the indeterminate number of days he had been wherever it was that he found himself, he had learned to recognise the old man's shuffling, rheumatic footsteps. Whoever was approaching now was not the old man. These footsteps were lighter, only audible, he supposed, because of the bare, echoing stone that comprised the corridor beyond his cell, and they were approaching far more quickly.

He shifted back, trying to blend into the shadows as much as possible in the dim light of the single, smoking torch on the wall, and gritted his teeth in annoyance as the chains that bound his wrists clinked—the sound was nearly deafening in the near silence.

The footsteps paused and he strained his ears against the silence, trying to hear the sound of a weapon being drawn, or the clink of a tray. Maybe the old servant had been replaced by someone younger and lighter of foot. _Or maybe,_ he thought with a shudder that had nothing to do with the perpetually chill air of the dungeon, _maybe that Tarkaan has finally come to kill me._

Another long moment passed, the only sound Peridan could hear was the rushing of the blood in his veins and the terrified thudding of his heartbeats, and then the footsteps resumed, somehow seeming more cautious. Another long moment passed, with Peridan nearly holding his breath, until a long, frightening looking shadow crossed through the torchlight and crawled across the floor. Looking cautiously in the direction of what had cast the shadow Peridan could just make out a tall, thin figure moving forward cautiously, head turned to look back at the corridor they had just emerged from.

He shrank further back into the shadows and did not even dare to breathe as the figure took another step forward and looked in his direction. It was King Edmund, but seemingly a different King Edmund than the one he had followed through the marketplace and confronted outside the Tarkaan's palace on the night of his capture. He looked exhausted and uneasy, but the familiar and accustomed sharp intelligence and cunning was back in his expression and he moved cautiously, as if aware of every sound and prepared to fight if necessary. This was the King Edmund Peridan had become used to on the southern voyage aboard _The Bolt of Tash_ but, remembering what he had overheard in the marketplace, he stayed silent, half hoping that he would remain unseen.

"Peridan?" the King was speaking in a low whisper, but his voice held the familiar Northern accent, rather than the lilting pronunciation of the Calormene as it had in the street.

 _That doesn't mean it isn't a trick,_ Peridan reminded himself, still hesitating as he saw King Edmund move to the other side of the corridor and begin glancing inside the empty row of cells there.

"Peridan?" he called again, slightly louder and far more urgently. "Are you here?"

 _Even if it is…_ He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he was certain that it had been long enough that this might be his one chance at escape. _If it is a trick surely the worst they intend is to kill me._

"Here!" His own voice surprised him by coming out as a hoarse, barely audible whisper, but King Edmund seemed to have heard him anyway and he turned quickly, half stumbling as if his foot had caught on an uneven slab of the stone that formed the floor.

"Peridan?" A moment later King Edmund had dropped to his knees in front of the barred cell door and was leaning over the lock, cursing as he seemed to be trying to force the unyielding mechanism open with the end of a cloak pin.

His hands were shaking, Peridan noticed curiously, and that seemed nearly as odd as his previous behaviour in the street. There was something that was unidentifiably strange about him still, and Peridan kept his distance from the barred door and watched with a mounting sense of fear as the lock at last gave way and the cell door swung inward with a faint creak.

The king stepped into the cell, looking quickly over his shoulder as if to check that the sound of the unoiled hinges had not drawn attention, and crossed the narrow room to kneel next to Peridan. "Are you alright?" he asked urgently as he began struggling with the lock that held the manacles on Peridan's wrists. "

"I—" _Am I?_ It seemed a strange question, and one that Peridan realised he had not considered very much, even in the days that he must have been kept prisoner here. It hadn't really mattered if he was alright or not—there was nothing he could do in any event. Now he was rather surprised to find that he was alright. He was frightened, he doubted that he would ever not be frightened, but the fear was not incapacitating as it had once been and his thoughts were far more orderly and focused than he had expected them to be.

King Edmund had been captured in an alleyway, someone who seemed to be King Edmund at a distance but had none of his mannerisms or cunning had led him into a trap and caused his capture, and now, here was King Edmund again, more weary, shaky, and looking as though he might collapse at any moment, spending what seemed to be all his remaining energy on freeing him. The only conclusion he could reach sensibly was that the man who he had followed and confronted had not been King Edmund—as impossible as it seemed it was the only circumstance that could account for his bizarre behaviour.

"I'm alright, I haven't seen anyone except an old servant who brought me food. I'm not sure how long I've been here either." It surprised him too how little the loss of time disturbed him. He had been uneasy and restless, that was true, but it did not seem the calamity it once would have.

The corner of King Edmund's mouth twitched into a slight smile that somehow lacked any semblance of humour. "I'm not the best person to ask about time either," he said quietly, the half-smile turning to a grimace as the lock on the chains creaked and fell open. He stood quickly, glanced back over his shoulder, and offered Peridan a still unsteady hand to pull him to his feet.

Peridan considered for a moment, caution still warning against absolute trust, and then accepted the King's help.

His legs were unsteady beneath him and the room spun slightly, reminding him that it must have been many hours, perhaps even a day, since the old servant had brought him his food, but even through the lightheaded daze he noticed that King Edmund was swaying on his feet as if the effort of picking the locks and getting Peridan on his feet had taken the last of his strength.

"My lord? Are you well?" The words felt strange to Peridan, especially after the days he had spent considering the man standing next to him to be a traitor to the land he so desperately wanted to call home, but it would have seemed stranger to him not to show his accustomed deference to the king who had come to his rescue.

King Edmund leaned heavily against the wall of the cell and nodded. "You need to get out of here. Peter's in the cellar, down the corridor, turn left, down the stairs, then to the right. He's probably in a bad mood." The smile was genuine this time, as if the younger king found the prospect of his brother in a bad mood amusing enough to counteract whatever strange, dark mood seemed to hang over him.

Peridan nodded and stepped out of the cell, still a trifle unsteadily and peered down the dimly lit hallway that the King had indicated. He had taken two steps to his right, eager to be out of the grim, stone chamber lined with cells, before he realised that King Edmund was not following him. Looking back, he saw the younger man still leaning against the wall of the cell, one hand pressed to his head and the other gripping the bars so hard that Peridan found himself surprised that the iron was not bending beneath his fingers.

"Your majesty?"

"Go on, I have business here." His voice was strained, as if he was speaking through gritted teeth, and Peridan saw a thin stream of blood start to drip from his nose. He took a step back towards him, confusion and concern warring with the sense of dread that warned him to run—to get out before it was too late.

"King Edmund, I—" Peridan wasn't entirely sure what he had been about to say, and the words, whatever they had been, were cut short as King Edmund raised his head, blood dripping from his nose, and gave him a look of absolute determined fury.

"Get. Out." From those two, quiet, strained words Peridan sensed that there would have been no room for argument or defiance even if he had been the type of man accustomed to arguing with or defying Kings. In a single moment King Edmund seemed to shift from a young man, exhausted, shaking and bleeding, to a King whose words and orders had the force to command countries and to move the mountains themselves.

Peridan turned and ran, stumbling slightly over the uneven stones, half-blind in the dim light and the sudden rush of ashamed tears that flooded his sight. It was the second time that he had run, obeying his King but leaving him alone, in danger and obviously unwell. A stronger man would have stayed both times, of that Peridan was sure. A man worthy of serving the four rulers of Narnia would have stood at his king's side in the dark alleyway and fought the guards who sought to capture him. A brave man would have stayed in the dungeon beneath the Tarkaan's palace and demanded to know the truth of King Edmund's strange actions rather than running to follow the orders of someone who looked ready to fall at any moment and leaving him behind in a place where he would surely be quickly surrounded by enemies.

But Peridan had always acknowledged that he was not brave and, while there might have been a time, months ago when he had first stepped through the gates of Cair Paravel, when he had thought himself worthy of the place he was to be given he no longer had any illusions regarding his own worth.

He turned to the left, stumbling again, and nearly choking with the effort of holding back the tears that were swimming across his vision. Everything he had tried to accomplish, the name he had so painstakingly constructed for himself, the years of careful plans, of deference to supercilious and despicable nobility, and this was what it had led to—utter and abject failure.

The stairs led down into darkness when he reached them, and he was forced to stop and lean against the wall, his breath coming in harsh rasping pants, before going on—far more slowly and cautiously, feeling his way along the wall and testing every step before he put his weight on it. At the bottom of the stairs he turned right, feeling his way along a sloping stone wall that led into utter blackness before him, and shuddered.

He had always hated the dark and hated it more now with the weight of his failure pressing down on him like an iron weight. He tried to tell himself that there had been no choice—he had been ordered by his King to go—but surely…

 _Surely I could have stayed. I could have helped him._ He stopped, alone in the dark, one hand pressed against the wall and the other held out in front of him so that he would not run straight into a wall or door at the end of the corridor. He stood for a moment, considering the impossibly daunting possibility of going back, of defying orders and returning to aid King Edmund in whatever, likely insignificant and largely useless way he could. Before he could quite gather the courage to try it, he realised that he could see a faint glow at the end of the corridor, a vaguely flickering light that reminded him of the torch that had lit the corridor leading into the Tarkaan's dungeons.

He froze, barely breathing, and pressed his back against the wall. His heartbeat thudded deafeningly in his ears, leaving him certain that whoever it was approaching in the hallway must be able to hear the echo of it, reverberating through the dark. His hands were trembling badly and he clenched them into fists at his sides, wishing— _for the first time_ , he realised—that he had a weapon.

The light drew closer, wavering and throwing grotesquely stretched and distorted shadows dancing on the walls. The shadows were enough to how him that there were two people approaching, but were so twisted in shape that it was impossible to tell who they were. _Or of they are even human_ , he thought with a shudder. In Narnia it might have been reassuring to think of the shadows not being human, but in Tashbaan the only rumours of inhuman figures were tales of demons and the tortured souls of the damned.

 _Don't be a fool_ , he told himself sternly. Such tales were fanciful nonsense, spun the priests and politicians to frighten peasants into compliance lest demons should descend upon them and their lands.

However certain his rational mind was that the approaching figures must be nothing more sinister than guards the reassurance did nothing to steady the terrified racing of his heartbeat as the shadows and their accompanying light grew steadily closer.

There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The walls of the corridor were smooth, with no crevices or alcoves that he might slip into unseen and he had passed no doors or branching passageways since he had descended the stairs. _I could run, try to make it back up the stairs, but…but then what?_ He tried desperately to think, to remember what had been in the corridor at the top of the stairs. _Were there doors? Other corridors?_ But his mind was blank, the image of the previous corridor blotted out by the looming, lumbering, and steadily growing shadows.

He braced himself for the shouts as the guards saw him, gritted his teeth, waiting for rough hands to seize him and throw him to the ground, perhaps for the rasp of steel as weapons were drawn—

"Peridan?"

He hadn't realised he had closed his eyes, but now the flew open and he blinked, vaguely seeing the outline of two dark shapes behind the flickering aura of the torch. He recognised the voice, incongruous in the surroundings, although he realised belatedly that he should have expected no one else.

High King Peter stood before him in the narrow corridor, holding the torch in his left hand and the hilt of his sword clenched in his right hand. A nervous looking Dwarf with a scruffy red beard and hair stood a step or two behind him, both hands wrapped in strands of his beard as he tugged at it and stared up at Peridan suspiciously. Peridan thought he recognised him vaguely as a servant of King Edmund's, though he couldn't quite recall the fellow's name.

"Y-your majesty!" Peridan found himself stammering like a fool, the terror of the past moments fading into an immense relief and then into a feeling of complete and abject shame. His knees buckled and he found himself quite suddenly, and without quite meaning to, kneeling before the king, his eyes suddenly burning as he stared at the featureless floor of the corridor. "Your—your brother, he—"

There was a rasp of steel as the High King sheathed his sword and grasped Peridan's shoulder. "Where is he?" Peridan felt the king's fingers tighten around his shoulder and would not have been surprised to find himself being shaken. The High King, however, seemed to have more self-control than most other nobles Peridan had encountered under much less trying circumstances.

"I don't—" the words caught in his throat, nearly choking him, and he shook his head helplessly. "He sent me to find you. He said he had business with—" Now that he thought about it King Edmund hadn't actually _told_ him what his business was. The Tarkaan was the most likely option, but Peridan found he was no longer certain what the motive for any business King Edmund might have with Tarkaan Obridesh was.

King Peter did shake him then, not roughly, but enough to pull him back from his own racing thoughts. "I don't care if he has business with the Tisroc, may his house be forever cursed!" Peridan was still staring at the floor, not daring to look up and see the king's expression, but he could hear the utter fury in his voice. "Where the devil is he?"

Peridan winced at the volume of his voice as the words echoed off the bare stone of the corridor wall and he thought he heard the Dwarf sigh loudly, as if frustrated by the display of anger. Peridan hunched his shoulders, half expecting the question to be followed by a blow, but after a moment the hand on his shoulder withdrew and he heard the High King sigh.

"No need to hang your head and stare at the floor Peridan," he said sharply, though his tone was not entirely unkind. "If my brother had his mind set to something I doubt there was anything you could have done to stop him. For Aslan's sake get off the floor." There was a sharp annoyance in his tone, but Peridan had a strange sense that it was not directed at him, and he stood, a little shakily, though he kept his eyes fixed on the floor.

The scuffed toes of worn leather boots entered his line of sight and he resisted the urge to shrink back against the wall as Brickle shuffled past the High King in his direction and held up a waterskin in one grubby hand. Peridan took it, feeling rather dazed, and gave the fellow a quick nod of thanks.

"Are you hurt?" King Peter asked sharply, and Peridan realised he must have noticed the shakiness of his hands as he took the water.

"No, your majesty," Peridan found himself mumbling, still unable— _unwilling_ , he corrected himself with a vague feeling of disgust—to look up from the ground. He heard the king sigh and heard his footsteps recede slightly, then return, as if he were pacing restlessly in the narrow space.

"How was he?" he asked at last, his voice quiet and tense. Peridan didn't need to ask who he was talking about—the High King's concern for his family was famous in the court of Archenland.

"He was—" Peridan thought back briefly to the tense, drawn expression on King Edmund's face, the tremors that had made his hands clumsy as he picked the lock to the cell, and the blood that had started to trickle from his nose before he ordered Peridan to leave. "He did not seem well, your majesty, but he seemed to be himself. We were separated, days ago when we first arrived. I looked for him, and found him in the market, but he did not seem to be himself then. He was—" he paused, gritted his teeth, and went on, willing his voice to remain steady and his eyes to stay fixed on the stone floor. "He was talking to the Tarkaan Obridesh—"

"Yes, yes," the High King sounded impatient. "Sallowpad told me all about that, and your capture."

For the first time Peridan raised his eyes to focus on the King's face and he felt his jaw drop in amazement. He had not seen him clearly before when he had been half-blinded by the torchlight, only enough to recognise him, but now he saw clearly what he had missed before.

He looked tired, and there was a short beard on his face that had not been there the last time Peridan had seen him, but that was not the shocking part of his appearance. Someone had quite obviously, and quite recently, punched him in the face. One eye was already swelling badly and Peridan could see a bruise forming along his right cheekbone.

King Peter actually smiled at Peridan's expression, and ran his fingers cautiously across his swelling face. "My brother," he said in a quiet, measured tone that Peridan was certain held a great deal of affectionate fury, "Decided it would be a good idea to knock me down and run away. Taking that into account I am inclined to agree with you that he is in his right mind."

Peridan stared at him, aware that it wasn't strictly polite to do so, but too shocked that anyone would dare to strike the High King of Narnia, much less that his own brother would do so, to find himself capable of doing anything else. King Peter sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He had given the torch to the Dwarf, and Peridan saw that his free hand was clenched around the hilt of his sword as if in preparation for some desperate and sudden battle.

"Where is he?" he asked again, his voice still practically vibrating with fury, and Peridan felt a flash of concern for King Edmund. If his brother found him the outcome would certainly not be a pleasant one for him—not after he had struck his High King, openly defied his wishes and gone off on his own.

The High King seemed realise what Peridan must be thinking and he laughed quietly, though the sound held more exasperation than humour. "I'm not going to kill him, if that's what you're worried about, Peridan. However ill-disposed I may be towards him at present, I am not about to resort to fratricide." The words were light, but his voice still held anger and his eyes were cold and hard, like chips of blue ice.

Peridan shivered and looked away. "I don't know where he is," he said quietly, very aware that it was the absolute truth, but that even the truth might not appease a furious king. "He came to the dungeon where they were keeping me. The last time I saw him he was standing in my cell. He ordered me to leave, but I doubt he's still there. He said he had business." _But what kind of business?_ Peridan wondered desperately. Was it the kind that boded ill for Narnia, or that only boded ill for King Edmund himself?

The High King shook his head and growled something inaudible under his breath before turning to the Dwarf at his side and taking the torch back from him with quick, impatient movements. "Brickle, have you a second torch?"

 _Brickle_ , so that was the fellow's name. Peridan remembered seeing him skulking behind King Edmund's chair at the one feast the King had bothered to attend since Peridan had been at Cair Paravel, and a rather tipsy Faun had informed Peridan that the fellow was a feared and respected spy-master. At the time Peridan had believed him without question, too awed by the splendour and bustle of Cair Paravel to question anything the Narnians told him. Now that he saw the fellow more clearly he found it hard to believe that Brickle would be calm and collected enough to be a spy-master of any type—currently he seemed to be in the process of systematically pulling his beard out by the roots. Perhaps the Faun had meant that King Edmund was a respected and feared spy-master but had been rather too deep in his cups to make that clear.

Brickle shook his head glumly in response to the king's question and mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that?" King Peter demanded sharply, and Peridan found himself shifted back a few inches until his back was pressed against the wall. The king was clearly on the verge of losing his temper and the last thing Peridan wanted was to be in his line of sight when he did.

Brickle shuffled his filthy boots. "This is my second torch," he muttered, sounding distinctly cross himself. "Your royal brother broke my first torch when he knocked us both down."

Now that Peridan looked more closely he could see that the Dwarf had a black eye to match the High King's beneath the grime that caked his cheeks. _How?_ Peridan wondered, dumbfounded. The King Edmund he had seen in the dungeon had not seemed capable of doing much more than staying on his feet, let alone knocking down his brother and a very solid looking, if somewhat nervous, Dwarf.

"Good enough," King Peter said shortly as he turned on his heel and brushed past both Brickle and Peridan on his way to the stairs. "Which way at the top?" he called over his shoulder, sword already half drawn from its sheath.

"R-right?" He hadn't precisely meant it as a question and the High King obviously took it as a statement of absolute certainty and was halfway up the stairs before Peridan had time to move.

Brickle grumbled something half under his breath and stumped up the stairs after him, holding the torch aloft with one hand and tugging on his beard with the other. "He's always like this," he mumbled over his shoulder, presumably in Peridan's direction.

Peridan stared after them as the light cast by the torch began disappearing up the narrow stairway. He couldn't quite shake the feeling that he had made a terrible mistake. Whatever the High King had said about his brother being in his right mind, and whether he was in his right mind or not, he couldn't help thinking that he had been very wrong to leave King Edmund alone.

When he had first arrived at Cair Paravel he had sworn fealty to King Edmund, just as he had to the High King and both the queens. He knew what that meant, knew that he had a duty to obey his king's orders, but surely that oath wasn't meant to contradict his own sense of what was right. He realised with a shock that he had never before considered what he ought to do when oaths contradicted his own morality. He had never questioned—he had simply followed orders, went where he was told, done as instructed—then again, he had cared before.

However enigmatic Narnia's rulers proved to be, however strange King Edmund's actions and frightening the High King's actions were, he cared what happened to them. It was frightening, uncomfortable, but undeniably true. After all, King Edmund had come back for him, the High King had come back for him. They had both been free of the Tarkaan, they could have left Tashbaan and never spared him a second thought, but they had not. They had valued him enough to risk their own safety for his freedom and in another moment he had made up his mind as he hurried to catch up with the High King.

 _Oaths be damned_ , he thought, surprised at his own vehemence. _Next time I will not run. Next time, I will stand and fight._ There was no longer any question in his mind that there would be a next time, if the Narnian kings were willing to tolerate his presence then there was no doubt that they would eventually run into trouble.

 **Resolutions to some storylines are coming soon to a laptop near me...**

 **Please read and review and I will try to be much better about updating so that I don't leave all of you waiting for MONTHS! Sorry about that!**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	26. Spies and Stew

**Guest: I definitely owe all of you more than two updates in a row! Unfortunately I have exams...**

 **Anonymous** **: So glad you like the story! I will try to resolve some of the suspense soon!**

 **Aslan's Daughter: One month this time! Happy birthday! Hope you like this chapter as well :-).**

 **Guest: The puppy eyes worked...here you go!**

 **Yes, It's been a month, yes, I'm sorry! Here's the next chapter though :-)**

 _16_ _th_ _. of Greenroof, 1012—Third-day_

Susan slept little the next night—every time she closed her eyes, she seemed to see the pale, kind face of her friend twisting into an expression of sudden agony as she crumpled to the ground. She knew that somewhere, in the little wood that lay to the north of Cair Paravel there was a birch tree that now stood, slowly dying now that Jala's spirit no longer gave it life. The Dryads would bury her at its roots, Susan knew, as was their custom, and the tree itself would slowly wither and diminish—living on, but as a mere shadow of its former grandeur.

At dawn a light knock on the door of her chambers roused her from the fitful doze she had only a few moments before sunk into and she stood stiffly, feeling all her bones and muscles ache as if she had run the length of the Shuddering Woods during the night. She rubbed the sleep blearily from her eyes and opened the door, still trying to force her arms into the tangled sleeves of her dressing gown.

Tiberius, the faun who had brought her news of Jala's death stood in the corridor, one hand half raised as if to knock again. She blinked at him, uncomprehendingly for a moment, and wished fervently for coffee. She wasn't particularly fond of coffee—certainly not to the extent that Edmund was—but at that moment she felt she would have traded a great deal for a steaming cup of the bitter stuff.

Tiberius blinked back at her, wringing his hands and contorting his expression into one of complete and abject dismay. "Your majesty! I am so very sorry to disturb at such an hour. Really, what you must think of me! But the General, you see, he said I must wake you at once."

Susan wasn't entirely certain she was awake, but she did clumsily manage to untangle the sleeves of her dressing gown and shuffle into her slippers. She didn't have the time or awareness to spare on more than a passing thought of how terribly disheveled she must appear as she followed Tiberius down the corridor to the back staircase which led directly down to the courtyard. Orieus had seen her at her worst before and had never judged her for appearing less than composed and no one else would dare breathe a word about her current state while under his watchful gaze.

The air was cool, the sun had not quite risen and was still hovering—a thin sliver of fire above the Eastern Ocean—when she emerged into the courtyard. She blinked, and rubbed her eyes, still feeling distinctly unprepared for the day, and was vaguely aware of Tiberius babbling apologies and concern at her elbow but she had stopped truly listening to him somewhere between her chambers and the staircase. Now she put a hand on his shoulder and gave him the most radiant smile she could reasonably be expected to summon under the circumstances.

"It's quite alright, Tiberius. You have my thanks, both for your concern and for carrying out your duty in waking me with such consideration." She forced her smile to become even brighter and saw Tiberius' face flush red as he bowed and backed away, still bowing and wringing his hands.

Susan sighed once she saw him disappear back into the castle and felt the smile fade from her face. She squared her shoulders and looked around quickly for Orieus. She knew he had received word from the Western Dryads the night before. Every Dryad in Narnia had been alerted of Duke Tirnan's crime and his flight as soon as Orieus had announced it and the messages of Trees traveled far more swiftly than even the Swallows Susan employed as her personal messengers. At dusk the evening before a Juniper had sent word that Duke Tirnan was riding through the Western Woods, obviously making for the Telmarine on the other side of the Western Wilds. He had been alone, having left his attendants far behind in an obvious desire for haste, but Susan had yet to meet a horse, even a Talking Horse, that could outrun a Centaur—even with a day's head start.

She spotted Orieus on the other side of the courtyard, one hand resting on the hilt of a great sword, the other half raised as if to command silence. A moment later she marveled that she had not seen him at once. He was surrounded by Dogs, a pack of Wolves who had emerged from the Southern Mountains after the Witch's defeat and pledged their undying loyalty to the Narnian thrones, and a huge Snow Leopard who usually served as part of Edmund's personal guard stood at his side, tail twitching from side to side in obvious annoyance.

The Dogs were not all talking at once, as they often did, but Susan could still here a chorus of voices and barking carrying through the otherwise still air and she sighed as she crossed the courtyard to stand at Orieus' other side. The Dogs paused in whatever tale they had been regaling him with at the sight of her and instead fell to barking madly and running circles around her feet—a wild river of grey and brown fur and madly wagging tails.

Orieus dropped his hand, obviously realising that some attempts at order were utterly useless and inclined his head to her. "Queen Susan." He was nearly shouting to be heard over the raucous voices of the Dogs.

Susan smiled at him and nodded. "General, Tiberius said you requested my presence?" An enormous Wolfhound chose that moment to spin in a circle at her feet and then sit down, sharply at attention, tongue lolling out one side of his mouth as he regarded her brightly. "Good morrow, Linus," Susan said absentmindedly.

Linus wagged his tail. "Queen Susan! Queen Susan! The General says we're hunting today!" He looked deliriously happy at the prospect.

"I said nothing of the sort!" Orieus snapped, obviously nearing the end of his patience. "Your majesty, the Dryads have informed me of the path Duke Tirnan is taking back to his own land, with the aid of the best of Linus' hunting _Dogs_ I believe we may intercept him before he reaches the Telmarine border and is lost to us."

The Snow Leopard, whose name Susan remembered was Asterius and who she still felt rather uncomfortable around, curled his lip back from gleaming white teeth. "Why you need Dogs," he paused to sniff disgustedly, "I really cannot comprehend," he said primly, dropping back to sit on his haunches and curling his tail carefully over his enormous front paws. His claws were out, Susan saw and resisted the impulse to shift further away from him.

Orieus sighed and began wading carefully through the mass of fur and shifting bodies with Susan following him quickly along the path he had cleared as Dogs dodged quickly away from the danger posed by his iron shod hooves. Susan knew that, however annoyed the General might be at the Dogs he would never intentionally step on any of them, but they obviously did not share her knowledge of his temperament.

Once they were free of the pack Orieus sighed and dropped his hand from the hilt of his sword as he turned to face her, expression both serious and concerned. He had foregone wearing his customary heavy armour and carried only a single great sword rather than his customary three—obviously he had planned for speed, rather than combat and Susan hoped fervently that combat would not be required.

"Are you well, my queen?" he asked quietly, his stern voice taking on a note of something that might have been gentleness, and Susan nodded silently, feeling tears gather in her eyelashes.

"Find him, General," she managed to say a moment later when she had, at least marginally regained control.

"I intend to," Orieus said solemnly, bowing his head slightly. "I will send the Dogs ahead with the Wolves. One of the Gryphons has agreed to scout from the air, and Asterius will remain with me to pick up the trail when our canine friends inevitably become distracted and lose it." The corner of his mouth twitched into the hint of an amused smile as he looked over Susan's head at the milling group of Dogs. Susan looked back at them and saw that most of the Wolves were sitting a little apart, obviously trying to remain dignified, but a few of the youngest were tussling playfully with a pair of Dogs. Asterius was watching with coldly withdrawn dignity, but Susan saw one paw strike out, quick as an adder, and swipe harmlessly across the muzzle of a Dog who got too close.

"He will not evade us," Orieus added, clasping his right hand over his heart and bowing his head in the manner of a Narnian swearing an oath. "He murdered one of our own, majesty, and gave great offense to you and your hospitality. However foolish Dogs may be about some matters they will run themselves into the ground before they let him escape after such actions."

Susan nodded and resisted the urge to throw her arms as far around him as they would reach. Even if it would have been dignified it would not have been practical, considering that he towered over her. "Aslan grant you speed, General," she said instead and raised her hand in blessing.

He bowed low, half kneeling so that his head was almost level with hers. "Have courage, my queen," he said quietly, and then was gone, clattering across the stones of the courtyard and shouting orders to the pack which immediately fell into some semblance of order as the gates were thrown open. They poured out in a stream of barking and fur and Susan watched them go for a moment before turning back to the castle, her footsteps slowed by indescribable weariness.

She did not doubt that they would catch the Duke, but she had no idea what she was meant to do with him when they did. Edmund had always been the one, out of the four of them, most suited to sitting in judgement and meting out justice. Susan knew that he was fair, that he always considered both sides and ruled impartially, and that he would never let his own feelings effect his judgements, but she did not know how she could replicate his calm, quiet fairness.

The Duke had murdered one of her subjects, one of her friends, in cold blood—how was she meant to separate her own anger and grief from what justice dictated? _And even setting aside my own anger, can I truly order the execution of another living being?_ She shuddered at the thought. It was true that, even putting aside her personal feelings in the matter, justice would likely call for the Duke's death.

Susan knew she had taken lives before, killed in war when the lives of her family and people were threatened, but to sit in judgement and declare another's life to be forfeit was utterly foreign to her nature.

She pushed aside the thought with an effort and hurried back into the castle. It didn't matter yet, it was not a decision she had to face until Duke Tirnan was brought back to Cair Paravel, and, after all, it was just conceivable that he might manage to escape and be lost to Narnian justice beyond the borders of his own country.

Susan stumbled back to her rooms half in a daze and dressed hurriedly. There where still papers to be sorted through in Peter's rooms, with more flooding in nearly every hour, brought by flying couriers of all kinds, and most of them inquired when the sovereigns planned to hold a proper state funeral for their fallen siblings.

She sighed, forced her hair into a tangled braid, and stumbled exhaustedly down the corridor towards Peter's rooms. If she had been less tired and had been looking straight ahead of her, rather than down at the floor of the corridor, she might have missed the scrap of cloth lying in the corner. She stopped and stared at the torn fabric for a moment, her mind struggling to catch up with what she instinctively knew.

It was a small scrap of light green silk and what had first caught her attention was the slight sparkle of silver thread running through it. She recognised the colour, and the pattern of the thread, before she even picked it up. She knew, but she still knelt and lifted the scrap of fabric, the black skirt of her gown billowing out in a circle around her.

 _Birch leaves._ The silver threads formed a delicate, faint pattern of birch leaves across the light green background and any doubts that had still lingered in her mind vanished. It was a torn scrap of Jala's dress, the one she had been wearing when Susan had seen her last—the one she had been wearing when she had been murdered.

 _But what is it doing here, outside the door to Peter's rooms?_ She frowned, looking down at the fabric, feeling as though she were standing at the very edge of some terribly important truth. There was nothing nearby that could have caught the fabric and torn it. The corridor was wide and well-lit, hung with tapestries and thickly carpeted, and Susan knew Jala and her inherent gracefulness too well to believe she had stumbled and torn the dress in that way. _Then how?_

She straightened and examined the nearby tapestries more closely, not even certain what exactly it was she was looking for until her eyes fell on a slightly torn corner of one tapestry. She pulled it aside with a feeling of inexplicable dread. The shifted tapestry revealed a sort of hidden alcove set into the wall behind it, with stairs leading down into darkness at the back of it. But it was not that which made Susan clap a hand over her mouth to hold back a cry. The floor, revealed by the torchlight now streaming through the gap in the tapestry, was covered with blood. It was dried, but no more than a few days old at the most, and Susan recognised the slight, dark green tinge to it.

 _Dryad blood._ Trembling slightly, she stepped back from the alcove and pulled one of the torches in front of Peter's door free from its mounting before pulling the tapestry aside again. This time she let it fall closed behind her as she picked her way carefully around the bloodstain and began descending the stairs. She already knew where the hidden passage would lead, and a few moments later found herself pushing aside another tapestry to emerge directly to the left of the library doors.

She put out the torch and sat down on the cool stone next to the doors, clenching her shaking hands into fists. It was too much, almost too ridiculous to be believed. _Secret passages, and lies, and…_ and murder, but not the kind she had thought.

It was slowly becoming clear now, and Susan nearly wished she had continued in ignorance. Jala had not been killed in front of the library, that much was clear from the blood in the hidden alcove, and from the fabric torn from her dress.

 _Someone was spying on me,_ Susan realised dully, resting her head in her hands. Someone had used the secret passageway to creep up to Peter's door, presumably to listen in on her conversation with Lord Gale. Jala must have come back and surprised the spy.

There would have been a struggle, the sounds muffled by the thick carpet on the floor, and if someone had clamped a hand over her mouth Jala would not have been able to call out a warning. The spy must have dragged her back into the alcove and stabbed her, then dragged the body down to the library to be found.

 _But Sundance heard her arguing with the Duke, unless he lied._ Susan had no fondness for the old Badger, but lying so blatantly and under such circumstances did seem rather beneath him. After all, he had been Edmund's friend, and Susan knew how particular her brother had been about his friends. If Sundance was a traitor Edmund would have known.

 _They must have argued before she died, maybe that was why she came back, to warn me of some new madness of the Duke's. Sundance must have been reading and lost track of time, he might not have known how long it had been since he heard them._ Susan groaned at the realisation that the Duke, who was now being pursued by a pack of Dogs, Wolves, a Leopard, and a grieving Centaur, could not have killed her friend.

Duke Tirnan would not have known about the secret passage, how could he have, and what reason would he have to spy on her after he had already made up his mind to leave in a fury. Lord Gale had been with her, and she would hardly have suspected him anyway, and Tarkaan Areesh had already shown his innocence.

 _Another Narnian did this,_ Susan thought wearily. _How could they! She was one of them!_ But there was no other possible explanation. There was a spy in Cair Paravel, and now that person, whoever they were, was also a murderer.

 _Not to mention that the Telmarine King will be furious when he hears we blamed Tirnan for a crime committed by one of our own._ She stared blindly down at the floor of the corridor and felt her shoulders slump further.

"I don't know what to do," she said aloud, and her voice echoed back to her from the empty corridor, distorted and mocking. _I don't know what to do._

What she did know was that sitting and sulking in an empty corridor would do very little to either solve her problems or make her feel better, and after another long moment she stood and brushed the dust from her skirt. There was only one place she knew to retreat to when she faced a seemingly insurmountable obstacle.

* * *

The kitchens of Cair Paravel had always been a place of wonder for Susan. When they had first taken up residence in the huge, echoing rooms of the castle she had felt utterly lost, though she never would have admitted it to anyone. It had not been until she discovered the kitchens that Susan had begun to feel truly at home. Now stepping through the arched doorway into the series of high-ceilinged rooms, filled with steam and the smell of baking bread, was like stepping back in time.

The Cook, who was a Wolverine with glossy red brown fur, was standing on her hind legs atop a stool and was prodding at what appeared to be a slab of meat with one clawed forepaw. The first time Susan had approached the kitchens with the objective of helping prepare the evening meal Cook had been horrified at the idea of a queen in the kitchens, but over the years her sense of propriety seemed to have decreased and now she barely spared a glance for Susan as she collected an apron from the hook beside the door and tied it on over her dress.

Susan crossed the room to stand beside Cook, and peered at the slab of meat—she couldn't see anything in particular wrong with it—but Cook was glaring at it as if it had personally offended her.

"Is anything the matter?" Susan asked, surveying the rest of the kitchen and finding it less bustling with activity than it usually was. There were a few assistant cooks chopping vegetables on a low table across the room, and two Rabbits were in the process of depositing a basket of carrots in front of them, but other than that the kitchens seemed deserted.

Cook peered up at her shortsightedly and huffed, the fur along her neck and shoulders bristling slightly. "Is anything the matter! I'll tell you what's the matter, your majesty, it's this beef rump." She punctuated the words by stabbing her claws into the offending beef, though Susan still couldn't see anything the least bit wrong with it. "It's raw," she added, with such a tone of defeated finality that Susan almost expected her to burst into tears.

"I—" Susan searched for words for a long moment and found that she had none. "I'm sorry?" she said at last, wondering if she should try to put her arm around Cook's shoulders in an attempt to comfort her.

The Wolverine spun to face her, a half snarl pulling at her lips. "It isn't you who should be sorry! It's that fool Tiberius, he was supposed to help me, since half the kitchen staff have cried themselves sick, and now he's run off with the General and his search party." She jumped down from the stool and stormed across the kitchen, knocking other stools over as she made her way towards the enormous ovens and the smell of baking bread.

 _Tiberius._ Susan stared after her, a vague feeling of dread sweeping over her. Tiberius had certainly not been included in Orieus' official troop that had gone in pursuit of Duke Tirnan, and had said nothing to her of his intention to go.

An image flashed behind her eyes, Tiberius white faced and shaken, sobbing into her handkerchief and shouting murder. There had been blood on his tunic, she remembered—the thick, dark blood of a Dryad—and he had known where to find her before Orieus had. She had been in Peter's study, not her own, he couldn't have known, unless he had been listening at the door.

And it had been Tiberius who had first connected the Duke to murder. He had been dropping innocent seeming phrases about the Duke's temper and his own fears that there would be murder done by the end of it ever since the Telmarine had arrived. Susan had thought nothing of it, especially given that Tirnan did have a terrible temper, but no one else had seemed concerned that he would go so far as to commit murder.

Tiberius had been tricking them all for a very long time, that much was becoming clear to Susan. She stumbled back and found herself sitting on Cook's stool, her head spinning with the new realisation.

The Duke was innocent, any doubts she might still have had on that count were gone, and Tiberius had gone with Orieus to find him. If they did find him, she was now certain that Tirnan would never make it back to Cair Paravel. Tiberius had killed once—had murdered a friend—he could kill again, and Duke Tirnan would doubtless be able to prove his innocence if questioned. If he died, trying to escape capture he would be considered all the more guilty for running.

 _The trees. I have to get a message to Orieus, surely the trees can get it to him in time._ Dryads could communicate over immense distances and could travel far faster than even a Centaur or a flying Gryphon. She stood and pulled the apron off hurriedly, leaving it draped over the stool as she half ran towards the kitchen door.

Cook gave her a bemused look and called after her, holding a pan of fresh bread in one paw and waving the other paw in the direction of the meat. "What am I to do about dinner?"

"Make stew," Susan called back and pushed through the door, out into the corridor, and immediately collided with a tall figure hurrying in the opposite direction who seemed to be dragging a smaller, struggling figure behind them.

She stumbled back, steadied herself against the wall, and found that she was staring up at Lord Gale. He appeared terribly disheveled and his face and neck were covered in scratches, as is he had lost a fight with a briar, but he was holding a struggling Tiberius firmly by one arm, and his expression seemed frozen between triumph and shock as he looked down at her.

"Your Grace," he inclined his head slightly, a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. "It seems I've caught a murderer."

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